


Stars and Stones

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Homeless!Clint, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Soulgaze, apprentice!Clint, barney barton is a good bro (or at least he tries), mindrape (Duquesne to Barney Barton), power imbalance - teacher!Phil and student!Clint (nothing explicit while in this relationship), warning for near-starvation and hunger, wizard!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson’s life has never lacked challenges.  The war with the Red Court and the Fomers may have ended, but instead of retiring as a Warden of the White Council and settling down, maybe digging out his mother’s old spellbooks, he’s decided to join Nick on his fool’s quest idea to found a new order called S.H.I.E.L.D.  He isn’t getting shot at on a daily basis anymore, but he doesn’t need any new complications in his life.</p><p>Too bad he stopped to chase down a jewelry store thief, then, because Clint Barton is more than just a vanilla human caught on the wrong side of the law.  He’s a young man living on the street, and he comes with a slew of difficult problems he doesn’t want Phil to solve.  Phil doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows that, no matter what, his life is never going to be the same...</p><p> (an Avengers/Dresden Files AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> I confess to playing fast and loose with the concepts of magic from the Dresdenverse. I forgive myself, and you should forgive me, too.
> 
> For continuity, you should know that this story is set sometime after _Changes,_ but it doesn’t really matter, because none of the Dresden characters appear in this fic. Familiarity with that canon is nice, but far from necessary. Just know that there was a magical war that Phil fought in and lived through, and is currently done with. All else should be explained in the fic. 
> 
> Phil and Clint have a teacher/student style relationship in this story. If that upsets you and you want to know more, please see the warning notes at the end of the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> HUGE THANKS to orderlychaos, Ralkana, and Desert_Neon, who all looked over this monster for you. THANK YOU, LADIES! You are all the absolute BEST!

The thief bucks, trying to throw Phil off his back, so Phil adjusts his grip. “I said, _enough_.” 

It’s like talking to a troll. The kid struggles. Phil grabs his wrists and wrenches them together, running a fission of power through his cufflinks. “ _Vincula,_ ” he chants. A thread of electrical power snaps into existence, wrapping itself counter-clockwise around the kid’s arms. It’s like a magical handcuff, only several hundred times stronger. The spell is one of Phil’s favourites. It’d been a useful tool to have as a warden.

Phil puts one hand on the kid’s back and holds him down while the spell tightens, expecting him to keep struggling, but, instead, he stills. “Fuck,” the thief whispers, every muscle going tight. He’s suddenly so tense, he’s trembling. “ _Fuck_.”

Phil frowns. That’s an unusual reaction for a vanilla human to have. “Who are you?” he asks. 

The kid doesn’t say anything, just pants face down into the pavement, his eyes wild and wary and so very, very scared.

During his career, Phil’s fought vampires, dark wizards, and Fomor frog-men. He’s never been trained as a cop. “I just caught you stealing,” he says sternly, flying by the seat of his pants. “You smashed the glass of that jewelry store and ran. I want to know - ” Phil catches himself and looks back. He’s on his knees beside the kid in an alley just off Seventh Avenue, half a block down from the jewelry store he’d been walking by when the kid had darted out of it. He’d run hard into Phil, bowling him over, and then had taken off down the street. 

Phil had drawn upon his magical reserves to respond before he’d consciously been aware of it. Years of war against the Red Court and then the Fomors meant that he was constantly on his toes. When the surprise attack had knocked him over, Phil had bounded to his feet and chased after the scurrying individual far faster than a normal human could have hoped.

He’d quickly caught up to the thief, knocking him down to the pavement and then dragging him into this alley before checking to see if he was human. Shouts of “Stop! Thief!” had still been echoing down the street. Once Phil had ascertained that the kid was, in fact, mortal, he’d kept him down and snapped the magical cuffs on him, figuring that he’d caught a brazen, if vanilla, shoplifter.

But something isn’t adding up. Phil looks down the street towards the jewelry store and sees that there is now a mess of people surrounding it. Getting a bad feeling in his chest, he searches the street for the shop owner. The man yelling in the middle of the sidewalk has to be him. He’s gesturing at the store with far more anger than is normal for the theft of a simple watch.

Phil looks back at his thief. “You were just the distraction,” he accuses, the con coming together in his mind. “Who robbed the store the second you’d drawn the owner away?”

The kid clenches his jaw. “You’re not getting nothing out of me, Council-dog,” he declares, in a reasonably forceful tone of voice. The effect is somewhat weakened by the audible tremor, but, still, it’s impressive.

That’s not the part Phil’s most interested in, though. “Council-dog?” he repeats. It’s not an insult he’s familiar with. “So you _do_ recognize magic then. Do you know what I am?”

The kid swallows. His eyes dart up to Phil’s and then away again. Phil doesn’t know if he’s nervous, or if he’s avoiding the gaze-triggered freefall of a soulgaze. “You’re a warden,” he says, and though his voice is stronger, his limbs are obviously shaking now. “You’re going to kill me.”

 _That_ draws Phil up short. “What? I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” the kid declares. His jaw locks again. “You can kill me, dog, but I won’t talk. I won’t give them up.”

“Give who up?” Phil asks, utterly confused. 

The kid shakes his head, looking stubborn and young and scared. “No.” 

Phil’s obviously missing something. He shakes the kid. “Tell me!” 

The kid’s lips press together, blanching white with fear and strain. “I won’t,” he whispers. His hands are shaking. “Just get it over with.”

“Oh, for the - ” Phil leans back and pulls the kid up, hauling him to his feet by his elbows. He’s light enough that it’s an easy task. His hands are still tied together behind his back by Phil’s spell, but he finds his feet quickly enough. “Come on,” Phil says, jerking him forward. “You’re coming with me.”

The kid stumbles. Phil can’t exactly haul him down the streets of New York in broad daylight, even with his new S.H.I.E.L.D. badge, without raising more questions than he cares to answer. He had a meeting this morning, but obviously _that’s_ not going to happen. Nick’s going to be pissed. Thinking quickly, Phil shuffles the kid through the alley and over to the cafe around the corner. 

His usual table on the corner sidewalk patio is open. Phil thumps the thief down into a chair and loosens the electrical spell around his wrists. Quickly, before the kid has a chance to respond, Phil pulls his hands from behind his back and around in front of him. He reestablishes the binding, tucking the kid in closer to the table and angling him so that his cuffed hands are hidden beneath the sturdy, mosaic-patterned tabletop. The kid flinches at the snap of magic.

The spell doesn’t hurt, so that means something else is frightening him. The very existence of magic, perhaps? But if he knows about the Council, then he knows about magic. He’s terrified of wardens, though. Phil peers at him. Could the kid be a warlock?

No, surely not. The Council is always painting warlocks as mad, deranged wizards. Phil’s read testimony on several cases and has had one close encounter with a dark wizard himself. The crazy old man shouting obscenities had blazed with power. He’d been completely and obviously taken over by evil forces, and six wardens almost hadn’t been enough to put him down. This kid is nothing like that.

He’s not much of a kid, actually. Now that Phil’s looking at him in the bright light of day and not the covered shadows of the alley, he can see that the thief is older than he first thought. From the thinness of his shoulders and the smoothness of his cheek, Phil had thought the kid was maybe seventeen or eighteen, but Phil can see now that he’s blond but stubbled, almost painfully thin to the point of being gaunt, and clearly over the age of twenty. Twenty-five, maybe, though that might be pushing it.

Phil’s thirty-three himself, young for a wizard, and aware that he’d never have been chosen for the duty of warden if it hadn’t been war and the Council hadn’t been desperate. He’s spent the last several years fighting almost nonstop, only recently getting a break as the Council had gained an edge over the Fomors. He’d been looking forward to retiring before Nick had come up with his mad plan. 

“Who are you?” Phil asks again, once the kid - the _man_ \- has started to shift under his gaze.

“I’m nobody,” the man mumbles, eyes darting to Phil’s and then away again. 

Phil is opening his mouth to argue - everybody is _somebody,_ he wants to say - when Mandy the waitress appears. 

“Phil!” Mandy says with a smile. “Good morning to you. Lovely day so far, isn’t it?”

Phil glances up. He hasn’t felt the prickle he usually gets before a thunderstorm, thanks to his magic, and, sure enough, the sky is clear. “Yes, Mandy, it is. Good morning to you, too. How’s it going today?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, shrugging, “ _Comme si, comme ça._ ” She glances at the thief with obvious curiosity. “Who’s your friend this morning?”

Phil looks at the man and waits. The thief looks at Mandy, opens his mouth, and then glances at Phil before shutting it again.

Phil raises his eyebrows. The man rolls his lips, tucks his shoulders in, and sighs. He mumbles something.

“I’m sorry,” Phil asks, pointedly. “What was that?”

The man shoots him an angry look. “Clint,” he says, a little louder.

Mandy glances at Phil and back to the man - Clint - again. “O-kay,” she says, drawing out the word. “I’ll just get you your regular then, Phil, right? What do you want, Clint?”

Clint’s gone mulish again, looking down and shaking his head.

Phil sighs. “He’ll have a regular coffee, as large as you can make it, and - ” He glances around, looking at what the other patrons are eating. He doesn’t usually get food when he stops here in the morning. “A giant chocolate muffin and a slice of cake, please, Mandy.”

Mandy nods. “Coming right up!” 

She leaves, and Phil looks at Clint again. He’s still staring down at the tabletop. They sit in silence for a minute or two, until it becomes clear that Clint isn’t going to speak.

“So,” Phil begins awkwardly. “Do you want to explain yourself now?”

Clint shakes his head. His shoulders are still tight.

“I’m not going to kill you, you know,” Phil says with a sigh. “Honestly, whoever told you that is wrong.”

 _That_ makes Clint look up. “Oh really?” he spits. “So if I did magic right here, right now, at this table, you wouldn’t stop me?”

Phil blinks in surprise. “I would stop you,” he explains slowly, “because there are rules about blatant displays of power in public places, rules that have to do with the safety of the magical community as a whole, but I wouldn’t - ” He cuts himself off as Mandy returns.

“Here you are, guys,” she says, setting Phil’s triple latte down in front of him. The extra-large coffee goes in front of Clint, followed by the chocolate chip muffin and the biggest slice of cake Phil’s ever seen. She winks at Phil. “Enjoy, boys.”

Phil picks up his coffee and takes a sip. “Mm, that’s good.”

Clint glares. 

“What?” Phil asks, staring at him, before noticing the strain in Clint’s shoulders and remembering the cuffs. “Oh, right,” he says, blushing slightly. “Sorry.” He channels power through his cufflinks once more and the electrical spell unwinds from Clint’s hands to slither down his legs and tie his right ankle to the chair. “There. Eat.”

Clint glances at the food. He bites his bottom lip, looking hungry and sad. “No,” he says, with obvious effort.

“No?” Phil repeats in surprise. He checks the food. It looks - and smells - delicious. “But you’re hungry.”

Clint glares at him. “I’ve played this game before,” he says with contempt.

“Game? This isn’t - ” Phil does his best to keep his voice steady. “Clint, this isn’t a game. The food is yours, it’s for you to eat.”

“And what will I owe you if I eat it?” Clint asks scornfully. His arms are trembling.

Phil shakes his head. What the hell is going on here? “You won’t owe me anything. Look - ” He leans forward and picks up Clint’s fork. Clint flinches, but doesn’t stop him from cutting a piece of the cake and spearing it. Phil pops it into his mouth and chews. It’s fantastic, moist and delicious, tasting of vanilla and spice. “There,” he says, sitting back. “I’ve taken what I want. The rest is yours.”

Clint eyes him distrustfully, but glances back at the cake and swallows. 

“Really,” Phil urges. “If you don’t eat it, Mandy will just take it away. It’ll go into the garbage as waste.”

Clint licks his lips. “You say that like someone who’s never had to eat out of the garbage before.”

Phil recoils, appalled by the mental image, and while he’s distracted, Clint snaps up the cake. He eats it in two quick bites, devouring it faster than Phil can blink. He checks the suddenly empty table. The muffin is gone, too. Phil honestly can’t say if Clint ate it or squirreled it away.

“Uh, okay,” Phil says, trying not to sound shocked. “Be careful with the coffee, though. It’s hot.”

Clint glares at him again, the effect somewhat ruined by the sugar dusting his bottom lip. It’s the only evidence that remains that there was ever cake in his general vicinity. “I know that,” he says, picking up the coffee and cradling it to his chest. He seems to be leeching warmth from it as much as keeping it safe. Eyeing Phil distrustfully, he raises it to his lips.

His sip is too large and too quick, and he winces when the hot coffee scalds his tongue.

“I told you,” Phil can’t help but say. Clint glares at him, and Phil smiles. “I did.”

Clint narrows his eyes, but he finishes the coffee, seemingly unable to stop himself from taking too-large gulps. In record time, the coffee is gone too. Clint puts the empty mug back down on the table. “What now?”

What now, indeed? Phil shakes himself, forcing his mind away from the startling enigma of Clint. “I need to see a friend. I had some business this morning that obviously won’t get done now, and he’ll need to be informed. You’ll come with me.”

“I could just go,” Clint says. He obviously means to sound nonchalant, but it comes out sounding desperate. “If you close your eyes, I’ll run and disappear. You can forget you ever saw me. I won’t be your problem any more.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “You aren’t a _problem,_ ” he stresses. He gets the feeling that Clint’s been called that too often in his life. “You’re a person, and you’re obviously in need of some help. Besides,” he points out, “there is the issue of the crime I witnessed. Someone needs to attend to that.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “People look the other way all the time.”

“Some people do,” Phil agrees mildly. “Not me. Come on, now. Stand up.”

Clint glares at him but does as he’s told, rising carefully to his feet. Phil takes him by the elbow and with a whispered command unwinds the electrical spell from his ankle. The magic dissipates momentarily before reappearing around Phil’s arm. Phil pulls back on Clint’s sweater, a mangy henley, slightly torn, obviously dirty but not smelling too bad, and exposes his wrist. The spell slithers forward and wraps around Clint before tightening around Phil’s arm, anchoring him and Clint together. Phil laces his fingers with Clint and lets go of the henley, which falls down to cover their wrists and all visible evidence of magic.

“There,” Phil says, satisfied. “Now you can’t run away again.”

Clint tugs at his wrist but can’t dislodge his arm from the spell. “Kidnapping is illegal, you know.”

“I’m not kidnapping you, I’m taking you in for questioning,” Phil refutes. 

Clint eyes him. “The first opportunity I have, I’m running away.”

Phil smiles. He’s worked as a warden of the White Council. He can handle it. “Duly noted. Let’s go.”

 

*

 

The walk to Nick’s office is surprisingly peaceful. Phil’s sure that Clint is just conserving his energy for an escape attempt, but as long as he’s walking sedately beside Phil without constantly trying to rip his arm off and run, Phil’s okay with that.

He needs to give Nick a heads up, though. Phil keeps his eyes open for a payphone. Thanks to his affinity for electrical magic, Phil has better luck with technology than most wizards, but he still doesn’t carry a cell phone. It’s a good thing, because his control is finicky when his emotional state is compromised, and having Clint at his side is most certainly compromising. 

Phil finds himself at a loss, both confused and intrigued. It’s obvious that Clint is malnourished and probably living on the street, but there was also the reference to the mysterious ‘them’ and his knowledge - though incomplete - of the Council. He’s also implied that he has some magical ability himself. Phil doesn’t like the picture he’s putting together in his mind, though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time a young, talented wizard had been taken in by a shady group with more interest in exploiting their budding power than teaching them the correct use of the craft. 

He does his best to put off thinking about the situation until he’s somewhere safe. The Fomor are a group of aquatic creatures with serious magical ability who have swarmed in to fill the gap left by the - now extinct - Red Court of Vampires. The Council has the threat they pose under control, but they certainly haven’t been beaten. An attack could still come at any time.

Staying on high alert while walking down the streets of New York is a challenge - there are always so many people coming and going and moving against the crowd. Clint seems more comfortable walking here than Phil is, but, then again, if he’s homeless, he probably does know this area better than Phil. Phil doesn’t live far, but he usually keeps his head down on his way to work. Still, he knows there has to be a payphone around here somewhere - there aren’t many of them left, and Phil has their general locations memorized. He tugs Clint in that direction as soon as he spots the familiar dented plastic.

Phil puts in the required change and the phone rings once before answering. “Fury here,” Nick growls. “Phil, this’d better be you.”

Phil smiles. He should have realized that Nick would be worried. “It’s me. I’m safe.”

Nick Fury, legacy warden of the White Council and founder of S.H.I.E.L.D., does not sigh in relief, but his tone is decidedly more relieved when he goes on. “Where the hell are you? I thought you’d been carried off by frog-men.”

Phil shakes his head, even though Nick can’t see him. “I was delayed on the way to the interview, boss. I ran into a - ” He glances at Clint, still stuck to his side. The small payphone area is hardly large enough for both of them. “Complication.”

Nick huffs. “I’m guessing this isn’t the sort of complication that you can ‘un-complicate?’”

“No, boss,” Phil tells him, smiling. “It’s decidedly sticky.”

“Okay, then,” Nick agrees with a sigh. “I’m sending Maria in your place. You and your ‘complication’ better be on your way to Headquarters, though.”

“Almost there,” Phil assures him. “I just wanted to call ahead and let you know.”

“Ten-four,” Nick says. “I’ll see you when you get here.” He hangs up.

Phil replaces the receiver and tugs on Clint’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Clint lets out an abused sigh and rolls his eyes, but he follows Phil away from the payphone and down the street. They really are close. Nick’s pet project is currently being run out of a nondescript office building far enough away from the downtown core to be unremarkable, but close enough to be able to respond to threats. The bland concrete façade hides a number of sigils and protections, though not as many as Nick would like. He has plans for a more permanent base of operations, a headquarters that will deserve the name, with magical defenses that would challenge even the White Council’s long-held fortress in Gloucester. 

Phil thinks that his longtime friend and former mentor is having delusions of grandeur, but he can’t help but be caught up in Nick’s vision. The Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage, and Logistics Division would bridge the gap between the White Council and the rest of the world, uniting both the magical and the mundane. Unlike the wardens, whose primary purpose has been a combination of policeman and soldier, the agents of this new organization will be spies, diplomats, and well trained security. They will tackle assignments the wardens can’t handle, and will be trained to deal effectively with the threats they find. 

As a heavily trafficked area, the current headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. has not developed any sort of significant magical threshold, so there are several layers of magical and vanilla security Clint and Phil have to pass through before they can be let inside. Phil is careful to warn Clint of the order of operations, saying things like, “place your hand here,” and “you’ll feel a slight tingle when this light goes off.” Clint seems familiar with the regular technology, but he startles at the casual display of magic. When the security officer raises an amulet and it begins to glow, Clint tenses.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” Phil reassures him. “Look - I’ll go first.”

The light plays over his face, hands, and suit, blinking green to indicate that he’s clean of otherworldly possession. Clint stands stiffly when his turn comes, but Phil can’t help but feel relieved when the light stays green.

He doesn’t think the gang Clint has fallen into is the type to encourage demonic contact or collect Fallen coins - those groups tend to _encourage_ the use of magic - but it never hurts to be sure.

“What the hell have you brought me now?” Nick asks once Clint has been secured in a basement office. They don’t have interrogation rooms yet, so they’ve improvised by casting a circle around Clint and the chair he’s tied to, directing it to keep out sound and redirect light. It’s like a wizard’s version of a one-way glass, with the only drawback being that Phil needs to stay within sight of the circle to fuel it. They really do need real interrogation rooms. Phil sighs. One more thing for the list.

Nick’s list is even longer than his is, so Phil will forgive him for sounding snappy. 

“He’s a complication,” Phil admits, “but an interesting one.” He quickly summarizes the morning’s encounter.

Nick’s scowl deepens. He’s dressed in his customary black field suit, with his antique sidearm secured to his left leg and his blasting wand on his right. It’s a practical outfit, pretty much Nick incarnate, but if he’s not careful, it’ll soon become the unofficial uniform of S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil’s already noticed several other agents copying the style.

Phil prefers a suit, himself. It allows him free range to perform his duties and offers him the advantage of anonymity. It also gives him the opportunity to wear his spelled cufflinks, which help him channel power much more subtly than a blasting rod.

“Stars and stones, Cheese. I sent you out to foster lines of communication with Tony Stark, not drag home some street kid like a demented cat.” Nick glowers. “I do not have time for this shit.”

Phil stands his ground. “This is what you hired me for, sir.”

Nick snorts. “I did _not_ , I hired you to - ” 

“To focus on the personal element,” Phil interrupts. “You said it yourself - Maria is good at long term projects, and your focus is on the big picture, but you need someone to keep their mind on the small details, the personal side of things. I’m good at that.” He shoots Nick a glower of his own. “You told me when I agreed to come work for you that S.H.I.E.L.D. was going to be different. You told me we weren’t going to be like the wardens, that we were going to be focused on not just the community, but the individual.” He jerks his chin at Clint. “There’s an individual, Nick. One who needs our help.”

Nick sighs. He rubs a hand over his face, and for once, Phil’s allowed to see how tired he is. “You don’t even know for sure that he’s magical.”

Phil knows the glimpse of humanity is calculated, even if it isn’t untrue. “I know an easy way to find out.”

Nick groans. “No, Phil. I need Wilson for his flight expertise.”

“He’s much more than a pilot,” Phil points out. “He’s also a trained counsellor with experience working with soldiers suffering from PTSD. If Clint triggers a soulgaze between them, I think that’s a skill that he’s going to need.”

The soulgaze that occurs when a wizard looks into another person’s eyes is an abrupt, sometimes violent thing - the wizard sees the other person as they truly are, and the other person sees the wizard back. There’s no hiding things from a soulgaze - the innermost depths of a person are revealed.

It can be a traumatic thing to experience, especially if someone has a history of abuse.

Nick’s a hard man, but he isn’t unfeeling. He looks at Clint for a full minute before turning back to Phil. “You really think this kid has been through that much?”

Phil swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. “I do.”

“And you’re convinced that someone with magical talent was behind it?” Nick presses.

Phil nods. “I am.”

Nick sighs. “Fine, then - call Wilson. It’s your job to sit down with Maria and hand over your files on Tony Stark, though.”

Phil blinks. “You’re pulling me off the Stark case completely?”

Nick waves a hand at the interrogation room. “If you’re right about this, then we have a situation here that we need to deal with. I will not have warlocks running around in our backyard. Your full attention should be on that.” He huffs. “I doubt I’ll be able to stop you from putting your heart and soul into this anyway, so I might as well make it official.”

Phil smiles. “You just want all the credit. I’m on to you, boss.”

Nick rolls his single eye, while on the other side of his face, his eyepatch twitches. “Talk to Maria, Phil.”

“I will,” Phil promises. “Thank you, Nick.”

Nick waves over his shoulder as he leaves, heading back down the hall towards his office. “Let me know how it goes.”

Phil nods and gets Wilson on the phone. Sam Wilson is one of a handful of individuals without innate magical ability who’ve been contracted to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. The finer details haven’t been worked out yet, but Sam has said that he’s willing to be available whenever there’s something they need. When he’s not consulting, he’s volunteering as a counsellor at the local VA. 

Seeing Sam’s name on Nick’s list of essential people had finally convinced Phil that what Nick is attempting to build here will truly be different than what the wardens have created. The White Council is notorious for dismissing anyone who isn’t a natural magic user as a waste of time and resources. Sam is a changeling - his mother is a member of the Fae Summer Court, and his father was a human. Sam was raised in the human world, but has attended a number of events at Court. 

As Phil understands it, Sam exists in some sort of suspension until he’s decided what he’s going to be. If he chooses his mother’s side, he’ll shed his human attributes and become a full-fledged member of the Fae. If he chooses his father’s, he’ll lose his longevity and slightly otherworldly aspect, and become a regular human the same as everyone else.

Some changelings choose early, and some live for centuries without choosing at all. Phil doesn’t know which way Sam’s swinging - all he knows for certain is that he’s never met anyone quite like him before.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, arriving less than five minutes after Phil’s call. “I was in the building, you managed to catch me before I headed over to the VA. What’s up?”

“I appreciate you coming,” Phil says, shaking Sam’s hand. “I have a situation that could use your expertise.”

He explains about Clint, and Sam winces. “Ouch, that’s rough. I can definitely talk to him for you. Are you sure about the soulgaze, though?” He looks worried.

“I don’t want you to actually gaze with him,” Phil reassures Sam. “I’d actually prefer it if you didn’t. It would be a shocking invasion of privacy, and I don’t think it would help. All I want to do is prove the extent of his magical ability.”

Sam nods. “I can try.”

They step together into the room, and Phil eases the magic holding Clint just enough for them to cross the threshold into the circle. Clint stiffens as soon as he can see them, his shoulders straightening from the slight slouch he’d fallen into after fifteen minutes of waiting. “Who’s this?”

“Clint, this is a friend of mine, Sam Wilson. Sam, this is Clint.”

“How are you doing?” Sam asks, sounding actually concerned.

Clint raises his eyebrows and rattles his feet. Phil’s electric binding spell hisses. “Tied to a chair. How ‘bout you?”

Sam shrugs. “Can’t complain.” He make himself comfortable in the chair opposite Clint, lacing his hands together on the desk. “Did Phil explain to you what we’re going to try and do here?”

Clint, though it doesn’t seem possible, goes even more tense. “No.” 

Phil isn’t sure how to reassure him, so he goes with the truth. “I’d like to test the extent of your magical ability. You mentioned you’d be able to do something magical at the cafe today, and you obviously have some passing familiarity with the Council.” He raises a hand, palm up. “I’m not asking you to betray confidences or tell me what you do or don’t know, I’m just wondering how strong of a wizard you are.”

Clint glares at them suspiciously. “What does it matter?”

Sam glances up at Phil, raising his eyebrows in silent question. Phil keeps his focus on Clint. “I’m not going to lie to you, Clint - if you have no innate magical ability, then I have no ability to hold you. You were right in surmising that I work for the Council, and the White Council of Wizards has jurisdiction only over its own folk. If you have no magical ability, then I will call the police to inform them of what occurred this morning at the jewelry store and release you into their custody.”

Clint’s eyelids flicker, betraying how little he cares for that idea, but he remains silent while Phil goes on.

“If, however, you do display magical ability, then it is my responsibility to help you.”

“‘Help’ me,” Clint repeats sarcastically. He snorts. “I’ve been ‘helped’ before.”

Phil curls his toes in his shoes to keep any kind of expression off his face. “I mean that I want to teach you,” Phil says instead, keeping his voice calm. “You were right in guessing that there are rules in magic - those rules need to be enforced. I found you, so it’s my job to educate you on the proper use of magic, and explain the rules that exist and the punishment for breaking them.”

Clint stares. “What’s the punishment?” 

“Death,” Phil admits, hating the idea, but needing Clint to understand how serious this is. “There are crimes for which the punishment is death. You weren’t wrong about that.”

Clint swallows. He looks nauseous, almost green, but he grits his teeth and asks, “What kind of crimes?”

It’s the way his hands are white-knuckled on the table that makes Phil shake his head. “We don’t need to talk about that now. The point is moot if you don’t have enough ability to be viewed as a wizard by the White Council anyway, and members of the Council are forbidden from discussing anything related to magic or the laws of magic with a non-magical being.”

Clint clearly doesn’t care for that answer, but he leans back. He eyes Phil and Sam distrustfully. “How are you going to check my power?”

Phil nods at Sam. “Sam isn’t a wizard, so he has no innate ability to draw upon power and shape it to his will. That means that if he looks into your eyes and a soulgaze is triggered, it’ll be your magic causing it to occur.” 

Clint pales. “A what now?”

“A soulgaze,” Phil repeats. “When a wizard looks into another human’s eyes for too long, the wizard’s power triggers a soulgaze between them. The experience is different for everyone, but it’s powerful, and invasive. We aren’t going to do that. Sam will look into your eyes and note only if he feels the tug that indicates a soulgaze is going to occur. Before it can establish, he’ll break away.”

Clint looks terrified. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that again.”

Phil’s heart clenches in his chest, but Sam leans forward, spreading his hands. 

“I don’t want that for you either, man,” Sam says. “A soulgaze is the kind of thing that sticks with you - a sharp memory that’s difficult to forget, even for us non-wizard types. I’ve got enough on my conscience to keep me up at night, I don’t need you there, too.” He looks at Clint. “I _do_ want to help you, though, and I think Phil’s your best chance for that.”

Clint swallows. He stares at Sam. “You really believe that?”

Sam smiles. It’s small, but it’s real. Genuine. Phil thinks that’s why so many people instinctively trust Sam Wilson, because he makes you believe as though he will really, truly, do what he says.

It’s a rare quality, and one Phil’s tried to foster in himself. Sam lives it everyday. 

“I do,” Sam assures him.

The seconds tick on, but finally, Clint nods. It’s a short, sharp jerk of the head, but Phil will take what he can get. 

“Just lean forward,” Phil instructs, careful to keep his voice calm. “Take a deep breath in and out, and then look at Sam. He’ll do the rest.”

Phil has soulgazed twice in his life. First with Nick, which was an experience he’s not soon to forget, because his friend and mentor is a lot of things, but simple is not one of them. Phil had perceived the soulgaze as a chessboard full of unfamiliar pieces, not white and black but grey, filled with shifting colours and constantly changing in size, shape, and direction. Random energies had pulsed around the board, occasionally shifting pieces without warning. 

Phil had understood that Nick had been - and still is - both the pieces and the board, a complicated arrangement of give and take. The colours that had run through the tableau had been roiling, and Phil had known that Nick was constantly being pulled this way or that. He’d withstood these pressures, though, by relying on the warm, silver light that had glowed from the centre of the board. Phil had instinctively understood that this light was Nick’s sense of duty, his anchor, his belief in justice and order. Whenever the board had pulled in one direction, or the pieces moved, or the colours changed, Nick had hung on to that silver light as though it could hold all the answers to the universe. 

For him, it did.

Phil has never asked what Nick had seen in _him_ during their soulgaze, but he knows that Nick had trusted him implicitly after. He’d trusted Nick, too. He’d known that no matter what, Nick’s belief in justice would prevail. 

The other person Phil has soulgazed with was a young man he’d been dating, pretty seriously, back when he’d first received his wizard’s stole. The soulgaze had happened accidentally. They’d been in bed, right in the middle of sex, and Phil had looked up and caught the man’s eyes. Phil hadn’t been experienced in breaking a soulgaze then, and they’d tumbled forward into one before he could stop it. 

Unlike Nick, his date’s mind had been like a black well. Thoughts and images had swum up from the darkness, with occasional flashes of light. It would have been fascinating, except for the unhappy nature of his thoughts. Phil had learned in a split second that his boyfriend wasn’t very happy with his life, that he didn’t particularly like Phil, and that he wasn’t actually attracted to him. He had stayed in the relationship because it was better than being alone. Beneath that had been a tumult of thoughts and confused emotions, a disorienting mishmash of memories and dreams. He didn’t know who he was, he didn’t know where he was going, and he was merely using Phil as a release valve until he figured out what he was going to do next.

Phil had jerked back, surprised, and the soulgaze had ended. He’d felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. Looking at his partner had made things even worse. Whatever the man had seen in Phil’s mind had drained the blood from his face. He’d looked pale, shocked, and horrified. They’d bolted apart in bed, and within ten minutes, the man had packed his things and left. He’d stepped out of the apartment and out of Phil’s life.

It had been a less than auspicious experience, and Phil is in no hurry to repeat it. He’s dated rarely since then. It hasn't been just his choice, though. After he’d been accepted into the warden program, he’d been busy fighting a war. No one had been able to maintain anything like a personal life during those dark years. 

He'd grown experienced at breaking soulgazes, though. Phil had never wanted anyone to see him like that again. He understands Clint’s concern. 

Phil watches carefully as Sam leans in. Soulgazes are difficult to spot from the outside, since they seem to take place within the blink of an eye. Phil readies himself to step forward despite the fact that he probably won’t have time. If it looks as if Sam’s falling forward, he’ll wrench them apart if he must.

Sam and Clint’s eyes meet, and the world seems to balance on the head of a pin. 

Then Sam’s blinking, and it’s over. He leans back, shaking his head, and exhales. “Whoa.”

“What?” Phil asks, stepping closer, heart pounding. “What happened? Are you both okay?” Clint looks pale.

Sam doesn’t look a lot better. “I stopped it,” he reassures Phil. “It was hard, but I did. I could feel it coming like a wave. Wow. Whoever your boy here is, Phil, he’s got power in spades.”

Clint jerks. Phil thinks for a moment that he’s embarrassed, before he realizes that Clint’s about to hurl. He quickly banishes the electrical binding spell and hustles Clint out the door and to the garbage can in the hallway. Clint makes a terrible sound and retches into the pail. Phil winces and steps away, giving him what privacy he can.

He looks at Sam. “What happened?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. I broke it off, but I still caught a glimpse. Clint’s been through some terrible things, Phil. He’s going to need a lot of care.”

“I suspected that already,” Phil admits. He had. As soon as he’d sat Clint down in the cafe chair and had gotten a look at him in the light, he’d known. “I’m going to - ”

He glances around to find Clint, and stops. The garbage can is missing and Clint is gone. 

“Stars and _stones,_ ” Phil curses, scanning the hallway. He looks back and forth, but the area is empty. Clint is nowhere to be seen.

“Where did he go?” Sam asks, running up to Phil’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” Phil growls. He looks around for a radio, but of course there isn’t one. Too many wizards in one place and not enough grounding spells - there’s more magic in the air that any electronic made after 1950 can hope to withstand. “Dammit, he’s going to get away.”

“We have to find him,” Sam says seriously. “Phil, whatever he’s going back to, it isn’t good. He’s stuck in a bad way. I didn’t get much, but I got a feeling of being trapped and knowing it’s bad and not knowing a way out. We have to help him.”

“I know,” Phil agrees, clenching his hands at this sides. “We will. Somehow.”

 

*

 

The security around S.H.I.E.L.D. is designed to keep people from getting _in,_ not to keep people from getting _out_. Phil leaves Sam to check hallways and races back to the front doors, knowing even as he runs that it’s futile. There are at least six paths Clint could have taken out of the building, four of which he could have noted on the way in. Phil has no hope of catching him before he makes it to the street.

He also has no way to track Clint, since they hadn’t gotten a hair or fingernail sample when they’d taken him in for questioning. Tracking spells are easy - they require only a handful of minutes to prepare and last for several hours, and they can be done using any physical sample that’s less than a day old. Obtaining something like that should _definitely_ be standard procedure before future interrogations. 

Phil is going to write a memo on the subject just as soon as he finds Clint.

Making his way to the sidewalk in front of S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil closes his eyes and tries to think. He’s got to think of this like an op. Picture Clint as the target. If he were tracking a target, where would he start?

That’s easy - note all locations previously occupied by the target and backtrack from there. Phil only has one location he can think of, but that’s the perfect place to start. Squaring his shoulders, Phil retraces the steps they took that morning, heading back to the jewelry store where he first saw Clint. 

If Clint and whoever he’s working with are homeless, they probably stick to their known end of town. There are dangers of leaving one’s own territory, and Phil images those dangers would be doubled for people living on the street. He knows better than most what kind of monsters lurk beneath the streetlights, both magical and mundane. If Clint and his partner had pulled a job at that jewelry store, then they probably squat somewhere nearby.

Phil knows this part of New York well. His own place is just around the corner, a two story brownstone he inherited from his mother after her passing fifteen years ago. He hadn’t lived in it until recently. When he’d first come into his magic, Nick had taken him to stay in the cabin he owned in upstate New York. The relatively isolated plot of land had been perfect for a young wizard not yet in control of his powers. 

After Nick had finished training him, Phil had been snapped up by the wardens. He’d travelled with them all over the world in the war against the Red Court, living on pallets in barracks everywhere from Bangladesh to San Juan. When the Red Court had been extinguished and the Fomors finally beaten back, Phil had moved home and reopened the dusty building where his mother had lived and died.

He’s been renovating the place slowly, adding a few personal magical touches that will make it safer and more secure. It doesn't feel like home, not yet, but the threshold is still strong, even after decades of non-use; Phil’s mother had been powerful.

If he can find Clint, Phil knows he’ll bring him there. The brownstone is close, secure, and comforting. It’s the perfect place for him to recover, and a good place for him to start learning how to control his magic.

First, though, Phil needs to find him. He arrives at the jewelry store and eyes it carefully, noting the absence of a crowd or a police cruiser. Either what’s been stolen wasn’t that valuable, or the police have already come and gone. Phil turns away from the store and instead starts scanning the street. Clint won’t be here; this is just a place to start.

The street he’s standing on is an unremarkable piece of New York. There are the usual tall buildings with a variety of stores, both international and American, pricey and thrift. There are people - always people - a background bustling hum, and, beyond them, a skyline filled with apartment buildings, office towers, and more.

There are two likely places, from what Phil can see - two half-finished buildings that have been abandoned, construction halted, likely when the economy came crashing down. They won’t be neglected for long, not with the turnover that’s so rampant in NYC, but for now, at least, they’re empty. Clint could be in either one of those.

Phil eyes the two possibilities and goes with his gut, turning to the one on the left without quite knowing why. He has to slip past a clumsily erected barricade to get inside, but, when he does, he sees that his supposition was correct - the entire first floor is filled with ratty boxes and dirty towels, and distrustful, angry eyes.

Homeless people peer warily at him as he moves through their shelter. Phil feels like a complete outsider, his tailored suit only further removing him from these people and their lives. He feels empathy for them, but hides it, tucking it away inside his chest. That won’t get him anywhere. Phil searches the faces for Clint’s familiar gaze, but doesn’t find it here.

He considers asking someone for help but dismisses the idea. That would only make Clint a target. Phil’s confident he can find Clint on his own. He finishes looking around the first floor and ascends to the second before repeating his search. He doesn’t find Clint there either. He continues to strike out until he reaches the very top floor of the gutted building, the spacious area that will someday be a loft apartment worth a small fortune in rent. 

It’s emptier, this far up. Phil looks around and sees only one bag here, tossed into a corner, but there’s an absence of dust beside it. There had been two bags, possibly three, and they haven’t been gone long. In the middle of the floor stands Clint, staring down at a mess of graffiti that’s been painted on the concrete floor. 

“Clint?” Phil asks, relief and concern crashing through him in waves. “Are you okay?”

“They left,” Clint says, and his voice is muffled. He doesn’t turn around. Phil notes that his shoulders are shaking, and that his hands are balled into fists. “They _left_.”

Phil doesn’t understand. “They left? Who left? You’ve only been gone a couple of - ”

“They _left!_ ” Clint shouts, spinning to face Phil. Tears spill down his face, tracking clean lines down his dirty cheeks. “They left me because of _you!_ ”

Surprised, Phil only manages to get his hands up in front of him due to years of training. Clint comes flying at him supernaturally fast. Phil thinks he feels a gust of wind supporting Clint, egging him on, but Clint’s fists are coming too quick for Phil to think. He concentrates on defence, not wanting to hurt Clint but wanting him to stop before he hurts himself. Phil blocks the hits that come at him, protecting his face, his throat, and gut. 

“They left because of you! Because they saw you! They thought you were a fed!” Phil catches Clint’s fists and finally - _finally_ \- eases him down to the floor. Clint hiccups and goes, folding in on himself like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “They left me because of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says into Clint’s hair. He holds the younger man in his arms, hands still firm on Clint’s fists, keeping them down, even though the tension has gone out of him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Clint hiccups again. “They’re coming back, though,” he says, into Phil’s chest, quiet and small, like a child. “They’re coming back, I don’t know when, but they will. They just had to go away for a while.”

“Okay,” Phil says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He privately doubts that someone who left so easily, so abruptly, will ever return, but he doesn’t need to say that right now. Whoever these people are, they clearly aren’t good for Clint, but he just as obviously doesn’t think that. Family, maybe? A close friend? A partner?

“Who are they?” Phil asks, but Clint tenses and he thinks better of it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he soothes, pulling Clint back against his chest. “I shouldn’t have asked, it doesn’t matter, I’m sorry.”

They sit like that for several minutes, and Phil does his best to hold Clint without restraining him. “What are you going to do?”

Clint shrugs but otherwise doesn’t move. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding exhausted. “I’ll find something, I always do.” 

Phil picks his next words carefully. “I’m sure you’ll survive, Clint - I get the feeling that you’re a survivor - but you can do more than that now. You’re a wizard, or at least you have the capacity to be one. The broken-off soulgaze with Sam has proved that. Stay with S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint. Stay with me. I can teach you. You can learn to control the magic you have.”

Clint swallows. “What if I don’t want to?”

Phil ignores the way Clint’s voice wavers and answers him truthfully. He will always be honest with Clint, he decides. “If you don’t use it, if you ignore it and push it away, it will eventually leave you. Your body will forget how to channel it. The Council will lose all claim to you, and you’ll be a regular human again. But,” he can’t resist adding, “if you learn how to control it, you can defend yourself. You won’t have to hide, or worry, or starve. You have power, Clint. If you let me train you, you’ll also have a skill. Come home with me. Sleep. Rest. Learn. I’ll teach you.”

Phil can feel the breath Clint takes, the way it hitches before filling his chest. Clint bends his head forward, avoiding Phil’s gaze. “For how long?”

“For as long as you need to,” Phil promises, feeling the truth of it in his soul. “I won’t keep you there by force, and you can leave at any time. I just ask that you tell me if you’re going to move on, Clint. I won’t try to stop you, I swear.”

“I don’t believe you,” Clint says, but he sounds more defeated than anything else. He’s exhausted, Phil realizes. He’s sitting in Phil’s arms because he has nowhere else to go, and because he’s too tired to protest. 

“I’m not lying to you,” Phil promises him. “I swear to you on my power.” The ritual words anchor him, reach inside of him, tying their truth to his very core. Phil doesn’t fight it. “Clint, I swear to you on my power that I’ll never do anything to prevent you from leaving. You’ll be free to come and go as you please.”

Clint looks over his shoulder and meets Phil’s eyes for a quick half-second before looking away. “Okay,” he says, finally extracting himself from Phil’s arms. He stands, and only wobbles a little. “Okay, fine. Let’s go.”

 

*

 

The short walk home seems to drain Clint of whatever reserves he has left. By the time they make it to Phil’s brownstone, he’s swaying on his feet, his single bag held loosely. Phil takes him by the arm and helps him up the last few steps, staying in contact with Clint’s elbow even once they reach level ground.

Phil reaches around him to open the door, and then steps through and formally invites Clint inside. “Be welcome in my home.”

Clint pauses for a half-second before stepping through. The moment he crosses the threshold, he shivers. “What was that?”

“A magical barrier,” Phil explains, ushering Clint inside. He bends down to help Clint remove his dirty sneakers, since it looks like Clint would fall over if he tried to do it himself. “If you were to cross it without being invited, it would rob you of the majority of your magical strength. I invited you in, so now it knows you. Your power is safe.” He puts Clint’s shoes carefully in the corner and debates what to do next. Clint needs food, a bath, and a change of clothes, but he’ll probably only get one of those three things before he passes out. Food it is, then. “How about I heat up some soup, and then you rest for a bit? Come sit down in the kitchen.”

Clint nods, looking dead on his feet. He glances once around the house, as if he’s curious but lacking the energy to do an in-depth search. “Okay.”

Phil usually has enough control over his magic to manage the microwave, but he doesn’t want to risk it now, choosing instead to heat the soup over the stove that was made in the nineteen sixties. It takes a little longer that he’d like, and by the time he sets it down, Clint’s practically snoring. Still, he wakes long enough to eat, slurping with abandon, and pockets at least one apple from Phil’s fruit bowl before standing up. Possibly an orange, too.

Phil doesn’t say anything, since Clint obviously needs the calories. 

After that, Phil hustles Clint upstairs. He has a guest room, but it’s being used as storage space, and Phil can’t remember the last time he changed the sheets on the bed in there. Clint probably wouldn’t care, but Phil does, so he gestures Clint to the master suite instead. 

“The bathroom is just outside and to the left,” Phil tells him, pulling down the covers and gesturing for Clint to get into bed. “Okay?”

Clint nods, blinking heavily. He climbs onto the mattress. “Phil,” he says, reaching up and catching his arm. 

Phil pauses, heart suddenly in his throat. He waits. 

Clint doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he drops his hand. He moves until he’s laying horizontal, and then pulls the comforters up to his chin. His breathing settles.

Phil exhales. It doesn’t matter. Just Clint being here is a huge sign of trust. “Sleep,” Phil says, resisting the urge to card a hand through Clint’s hair. “Just sleep.”

 

*

 

Phil wakes up to a quiet house. He’s stiff from spending a night on the couch, sleeping on his side with his nose turned into the cushions, blanket pulled up around his ears to limit the chance that he’d notice if Clint tried to sneak out during the night. Phil had promised that he wouldn’t try to stop him, and he’d meant it, but that doesn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t be tempted just the same.

It looks like Clint’s still here, though. The front door is locked, Clint’s shoes are still sitting in the entranceway, and the door to Phil’s bedroom is closed. Phil stands on the main floor looking up and wonders if he should peek in just to be sure. He probably shouldn’t. If Clint _is_ still here, it’d just wake him up, and if he isn’t, well. Phil can live in ignorance for a few more hours.

Turning his back on the stairs, Phil heads to the kitchen instead, filling the kettle with water he’ll use to brew coffee. There are a lot of modern conveniences that he misses because he’s a wizard, but he refuses to allow coffee to be one of them. The espresso he makes on the stove is both low tech and delicious. 

While the water is boiling, Phil checks his cupboards. He doesn’t have much, but there’s oatmeal, and lots of it. Phil puts on three times the amount he normally would, and then adds an extra cup to be sure; Clint’s going to be hungry. Phil manages to find butter, brown sugar, and an old thing of maple syrup. There aren’t any nuts or raisins, but that’s probably okay. He has cream, some milk, and water out of the tap. It’ll have to be enough. 

Once breakfast is cooking and Phil’s had his second coffee of the day, he heads back to the stairway and looks up towards the second floor again. Should he tap on the bedroom door? Does he want to wake Clint up? The man deserves to sleep in for as long as he can, but he’s sure to be getting hungry soon. He’s got an apple and a muffin squirreled away in his jacket, if he hasn't already eaten them, but surely that can’t be enough for the day? He’ll come downstairs eventually, right?

Phil has no idea. In fact, he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He’s never taken someone in off the streets before, he’s never had an apprentice in his life, and he’s certainly never attempted to do both _at the same time._ Add onto that the fact that Clint is obviously scared, traumatized, and fairly powerful, and Phil feels like a man who’s just stepped into the ocean and remembered that he doesn’t know how to swim. 

He should call Fury and tell him to find someone else.

The bedroom door cracks open. Phil holds his breath.

Nothing happens. “Good morning,” Phil calls upstairs. “I’m, um, cooking breakfast in the kitchen. It’s just oatmeal, but there’s lots of it. The bathroom is just on your left. You could, oh - ” He should probably put out a toothbrush and shampoo and soap or something. Phil hurries up the stairs and into the bathroom, rummaging around in the drawers before finding what he needs. He lays everything out on the countertop before backing into the hallway. The bedroom door is closed again, but not completely, and Phil thinks he can see a dark shape lurking beyond the crack in the door. 

“It’s all ready for you, if you want it,” Phil says into the empty air. “I’ll be downstairs.”

He retreats as fast as he’s able, ducking back into the kitchen and holding his breath while he listens hard. Faintly, he can hear the sound of the bedroom door opening again, and then the pad of near-silent feet as Clint makes his way across the upper floor. The bathroom door light clicks on, the door closes, and the pipes start to rattle. There’s water running. Phil breathes out a sigh of relief.

Clint hasn’t left after all.

Phil walks back to the pot of oatmeal and gives it a good stir. Clint trusts him, at least enough to spend the night in his house. Phil finds himself grinning as he turns down the heat on the stove. That’s wonderful.

Maybe they can do some spell work this afternoon. He wants to make good on his promise to teach Clint magic as soon as possible. He wants Clint to understand that Phil is here to help him, that he doesn’t have an ulterior motive, that he isn’t going to hurt him. Phil wants Clint to feel safe.

He deserves to feel safe. 

Phil gets out a pen and pad of paper and starts writing down teachable ideas. They could work on wind magic - Clint seems to have a natural affinity for that. Defensive spells, too, so he can protect himself. Maybe a home-seeking spell - not yet, naturally, but later, in a few days, when Clint feels comfortable in Phil’s house. That way he won’t be able to get lost.

By the time Clint comes downstairs, Phil’s assembled a list of topics they could tackle, along with several notations about interesting bits of magic he wants to share, some history on the craft, defensive spells they could practice, and the names of several people within the White Council who excel at wind magic and would be willing to teach him for an hour or two. He puts down the pen when Clint walks into the kitchen. Phil looks up to tell him about the list and stops, staring.

Clint looks - well, he looks _good._ He’s wearing the t-shirt Phil set out for him last night and it stretches tight across his shoulders. He’s broad, much broader than Phil, but skinny. That’ll fill out. The old jogging pants Phil gave him hang off his hips, even though he’s looped the string twice and knotted it. 

Phil finds himself following the line of Clint's body and jerks his head back up, swallowing. He can’t, he _shouldn’t_ \- but then his breath catches, because Clint’s face is just as arresting as the rest of him. He looks both older and younger than he had last night. A couple of hours of sleep has lifted some of the exhaustion from his eyes, and the shower has removed a layer of dirt from his skin. He’s pale, not as tanned as Phil had thought yesterday, and blonder, too. His face is clean, unmarked, without a single wrinkle, but his eyes are old. 

Phil can’t help but stare at his eyes, blue and green and gold and ancient, eyes that have seen too much, decades more than the rest of him. He loses track of time and the gaze goes on a moment too long. A pressure seizes Phil, tugging on the edges of his senses, drawing him _up_ and _in_. Phil desperately tears his gaze away. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil gasps, blinking, shaking his head to clear it. The sense of pressure lingers. “I’m sorry, Clint. I shouldn’t have - ” He swallows hard. “I almost triggered a soulgaze. I’m sorry.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clint hunch his shoulders, his hands clenched into the fabric of his borrowed clothes. 

Acting on instinct, Phil reaches out and lays his hand on Clint’s bare arm. Clint twitches, but doesn’t move away. Phil gently squeezes his arm. 

“It won’t happen again,” he promises. “Come on, I made oatmeal. Sit down and I’ll get you a bowl.”

Clint darts a look up at Phil’s eyes, twists his hands together in his t-shirt, and looks away again. “Sure,” he rasps.

“Okay,” Phil says. “Here.” He goes to the cupboard, coming back to the table with a bowl, spoon, and hot plate. He lifts the giant pot of oatmeal off the stove and places it on the table so it’s within easy reach. “I made lots, so eat as much as you like. There’s brown sugar and maple syrup, some cream, but no nuts, I’m afraid. This is also probably the last edible thing I have in the apartment, apart from some fruit. Eat up and then we can go to the store later.”

Clint hesitates before sitting down. It breaks Phil’s heart to see, and he curses himself for a fool. He shouldn’t have looked at Clint’s eyes. He wouldn’t have thought it’d be a problem - Phil’s had years of experience in breaking a soulgaze - but apparently Clint’s in a league of his own. Certainly no one has ever captivated Phil like this before. Phil shakes his head. He’s got to get himself under control. 

“So,” Phil says, attempting to do just that, “what do you want to learn today?” He gestures to his notebook. “I thought we should start with something simple, something that you feel comfortable with. Maybe some wind magic? You’ve certainly shown an affinity for that. We could - ”

“No,” Clint interrupts. He looks scared again. “No wind magic.”

Phil blinks. “No? Are you sure? You definitely - ”

Clint’s face goes hard. “No. Wind. Magic.”

“Okay,” Phil says, letting go of his bowl and raising his hands to show that they’re empty. “No wind magic, I understand.” He hesitates. “What _do_ you want to learn, then?”

Clint picks up his spoon and takes a small bite of oatmeal. He keeps his gaze on Phil’s face the entire time, looking just to the left of his eyes, like he knows how to avoid a soulgaze, too. “You’re really going to teach me?”

Phil blinks. “Yes. I will. I promised I would, and so I will. I never break my promises, Clint.”

Clint bites his bottom lip. He takes another spoonful of oatmeal and stuffs it into his mouth. “Could you teach me how to make a circle?” he mumbles. “Like - like you did yesterday at S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Phil frowns. He’d worked a circle around Clint to hold him deaf and blind inside the magical equivalent of one-way glass. He didn’t figure it’d be an experience Clint would want to repeat. 

“I can,” he says, slowly, thinking back to his list. “There are other spells that are easier, though. Circle-casting can be tricky. There are more steps than you’d think, and you have to hold a lot together inside your mind for it to work.”

Clint hunches his shoulders over his oatmeal. “Never mind,” he mumbles.

Phil feels completely out of his depth. “I can teach you,” he promises. When Clint looks up, Phil summons a smile. “I’m just warning you that it’s going to be difficult. Can I ask why you want to learn?”

Clint shrugs, looking away again. “They seem useful, that’s all.”

Phil is absolutely confident that it _isn’t_ all, but he’s not going to push the issue. “They are,” he agrees instead. “Circles are good for all kinds of things. They’re practically a tool in themselves, a working that creates a safe space for the wizard to use however they need. They’re complicated, though.” He thinks for a second, trying to recall how Nick had taught _him,_ back in the day. He’d done a ton of reading for a week, he’s pretty sure. That delayed approach obviously won’t work for Clint. “Why don’t we talk through the steps,” Phil says instead, “and then we’ll go to the store and pick up a couple of things that we’ll need. We’ll make lunch, eat, and then give it a try this afternoon.”

Clint starts. “Really?”

Phil smiles. “Really. I want you to be aware that it might not work the first time, though. Circles can be difficult, Clint.”

He frowns. “I can do it.”

“I’m sure that you can,” Phil assures him, “but I’m saying that you might not be able to do it the first time. That’s okay. Magic is a skill, much like any other. It’s all about practice.”

“I’m good at picking things up quickly,” Clint argues, “and I work hard. I’ll get it, you’ll see.”

Phil blinks at the force behind his words. “I don’t doubt that you will, I’m serious about that. I’m just saying that it’s okay if it takes a little while. The first time you walked, you fell down, and the first spell you cast, you’ll fail. That’s just the way it is. I won’t be angry with you if it doesn’t work, and - ” His eyes widen in realization. “ - I won’t kick you out. Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Clint scowls into his oatmeal. “It doesn’t matter if you kick me out, you said I’m free to leave at any time.”

“I did,” Phil says, feeling frustrated, “and I meant it.” He pushes down his irritation. It’s not Clint’s fault that he doesn’t trust him, it just means that Phil will have to work harder to earn that trust. 

Phil decides to start with what he knows. He slides the brown sugar closer to Clint. “Go ahead and add that, it’ll make the oatmeal taste better, and then I’m going to ramble on about circles, okay? Pay attention, because it’s important, but don’t think you have to take notes. I’ll have you repeat back what you remember and we’ll go from there.” He waits for Clint to look up and nod, and then starts. “So, circles. Circles are inherently useful magic - by crafting a circle, you’ll be creating a magical barrier between yourself and whatever you want. Circles require three things - a physical representation, a clear head, and a way to power the spell.”

Phil talks until the pot of oatmeal is gone. It’s not hard - he loves magic, enjoys all the ways it can be shaped, and likes talking through the theoretical applications with other wizards when he has the time. He hasn’t had any lately, and he hadn’t realized until now that he’s missed it. He’s been too busy to even realize how busy he is.

Luckily for him, Clint’s an avid pupil. He keeps his head down and shovels oatmeal into his mouth, but Phil doesn’t miss the careful way he’s holding himself. When Phil finally stops, Clint repeats the key points back to him clearly, capturing the essence of Phil’s lecture and distilling it down to the relevant points. 

“So I draw the circle using chalk or pour it with salt as perfectly as I can,” he says after summarizing the theoretical underpinnings of the magic, “and hold the image of what I want the circle to do clearly in my mind, and I then prick my finger with the knife and let a drop of blood fall onto the barrier. The circle will spring up and I’ll be safe.”

“We’ll use a lancet, not a knife,” Phil clarifies, “because knives are unsanitary and lancets are clean, single use, and inexpensive, but yes.” He smiles. “Other than that, you’ve got it. Well done.”

Clint flushes, and Phil watches in fascination as the pink hue spreads over his cheeks. “Um, so, are we going to go?”

Phil nods. “Yes, let me just grab my wallet and we’ll head to the store.” He looks down at his sleep clothes. “Uh, I should probably change. Do you mind if I go into the bedroom and grab a couple of things?”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s your house, man.”

He can’t argue with that. “It is, but - well.” Phil stumbles over his words for the first time this morning since he started lecturing about magic. “I want you to know that I’d like it if you stayed. I was honest about that. This isn’t just a temporary thing for me. I mean, it is, because eventually you’ll want to leave, but I mean - ” He shakes his head, takes a breath, and starts over. “What would you say if I offered to clear out the spare room? You could put your stuff in there, and it’d be yours. For however long you wanted it to be.”

Clint eyes him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Phil promises. “Really.”

Clint swallows, meets Phil’s eyes for a half-second, and then gives him one short, sharp nod. 

“Okay,” Phil breathes out, relieved. “I’m glad. Let me get changed and we’ll go, all right?” 

Clint scrapes the last of the oatmeal out of his bowl. It’s cold and congealed by now, but he doesn’t seem to care about that, sticking the spoon into his mouth while he stares at the tabletop. He nods. 

Phil ducks out of the kitchen and heads to his room. He dresses as quickly as he can, not wanting to leave Clint to second guess things for too long. By the time he comes downstairs, Clint has washed the dishes and dried the bowls. Phil finds him holding the spoons they used for breakfast, looking for the drawer. 

“That one there by the sink,” Phil says, pointing. “Thank you for doing the dishes, Clint. You didn’t have to.”

Clint shrugs, looking away again. “Are we leaving, or what?”

“We are,” Phil promises. He slings on his jacket and rummages in his closet for an extra one for Clint. “Here you are. Let’s go.”

The walk to the grocery store is awkward for a couple of minutes, but then Clint seems to look up, take in a deep breath, and relax. The set of his shoulders loosens. He glances around, eyes bright, hands folded inside the jacket that's too long for him. They don’t talk, but the air between them is comfortable now. 

Phil doesn’t know what prompted the change, but he’s glad for it. Maybe Clint’s decided he isn’t going to run. Phil hopes so.

He doesn’t bother Clint with questions until they get to the grocery store, but, when they walk in, he gestures for him to walk ahead while he grabs a cart. “Head off and pick up anything you like. Do you have a favourite meal? We should pick up a couple of days’ worth of lunch and dinner.”

Clint stuffs his hands back inside his borrowed jacket. His shoulders are tense again. “Whatever you want will be fine.”

Phil thinks about pushing, but he restrains himself. “Okay, well, if you see anything that interests you, go ahead and put it in the cart. I’ll get enough for a few days, at least.”

They start meandering around the store. Phil lifts a few things for Clint’s inspection, but gets only grunts in reply. Phil takes that as a ‘yes’ until Clint gives the same answer to both broccoli _and_ brussel sprouts, and then he sighs. “You can’t possibly want to eat both of them.”

Clint side-eyes him. “Why not? They look okay. Are they gross or something?”

Phil can’t quite contain his surprise. “You’ve never had them?” 

Clint shrugs. “We didn’t eat too many green things in the circus, or before that, I suppose.” He turns and blinks at a display of artichoke hearts. “What are those?”

Phil is very careful not to react. “Artichoke hearts. I have no idea how to cook them, but I’m sure we can find a recipe in one of my mom’s old books. Let’s get them.”

They return to Phil’s place loaded down with bags, carrying four apiece, along with a small selection of salt, chalk, and thread. Phil had given Clint a short magic lesson in the grocery store, describing the colour theory of magic before allowing Clint to choose what he likes.

“Magic is all about focused attention - picturing what you want, and then directing the energy you need to get it. Identifying a colour with a specific kind of working is a great mental shortcut that can help you focus. I like to use blue for protection magic and red for attack.” Phil had looked at Clint. “What do you like?”

Clint had bitten his lip, reaching out almost hesitantly to finger the purple chalk. “I - I don’t know,” he’d said, dropping his hand as if burned. “Blue is good.”

“Go ahead and pick a couple of colours,” Phil had suggested, instead of arguing. He’d wanted Clint to choose a colour that had a personal connection to him, and so had left him standing in front of the display of giant-sized pieces of sidewalk chalk. “I’ll grab a few assorted packages and we can experiment.”

Clint had picked out a few different shades of blue, along with two green, one white, and one silver. He’d left all the red and purple on the shelves.

“That’s it?” Phil had asked carefully, glancing over Clint’s selection. 

“That’s it,” Clint had said, folding his hands into his jacket again. 

“Okay,” Phil had agreed, and then taken them to the baking aisle for more oatmeal and salt. 

Now, walking home, Phil debates bringing it up again. Clint obviously has some affinity for wind magic. Wind is powerful, chaotic and dangerous, but controllable, too. Purple is good for wind magic. Phil prefers electricity and pure force, so he uses a lot of blue and white or silver, though he can light a candle and summon a small gust of wind, if he has to. He’d never gotten the hang of water magic, and his fire magic is passable, if weak. 

If Clint had picked out any purple chalk, Phil could have drawn a purple arrow on the ground and asked Clint to summon a gust of wind in that direction, pushing with his magic to speed the air along. Clint hadn’t picked out any, though, and Phil decides as they walk home not to push it. He’d promised to teach Clint how to cast a circle and that’s what he’s going to do. Blue will work well for that.

Clint helps Phil put groceries away and then make lunch when they get home. It’s just grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup - Phil had decided to go with something hearty and classic - but it’s filling. He leaves Clint stirring the soup and uses the time to start cleaning up the spare room. 

“It’s ready!” Clint calls upstairs.

“Coming!” Phil calls back. He’s barely made a dent in the pile, but at least he’s cleared a path to the bed now. That’s something.

They eat their fill - Clint goes back for seconds - and then Phil leads the way downstairs. “This is the basement. It’s pretty good for working magic since it’s underground. Spellwork in progress can be dangerous and having the earth around you is a good grounding force. When I was an apprentice, I spent most of my time accidentally blowing up trees on my mentor’s property upstate, but we should be reasonably safe here. My mother owned this house before me, and she crafted some pretty heavy defensive spells into the walls. I’ll activate them before we do anything dangerous.”

Clint nods, looking around. The basement is finished, cooler than the rest of the house but not unreasonably so. The floor is polished concrete, and there’s a desk, a set of shelves, and a stack of boxes in the corner. The majority of the space is clear. Phil watches Clint take it in, noting that he looks both nervous and excited, as well as slightly nauseous. Phil smiles. He remembers that combination. 

“Don’t worry,” he reassures Clint. “It’s normal to be scared. We’re working with elemental forces, after all. Take a deep breath in and out, and remember that your body is ready for this.”

Clint goes even more tense. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re a wizard,” Phil says. “Every instance of accidental magic, every time you’ve summoned a gust of wind or put out a flame with a wave of your hand - ” He sees Clint flinch, and warms his tone as he continues. “ - that’s your body channeling magic without your control. I’m going to teach you that control, Clint.”

Clint takes a deep breath. He still looks nervous, but he’s determined now, too. “Okay.”

They spend an hour drawing circles. Phil starts them off on paper, practicing until they’ve eased out a lot of the wobbly lines. From there, they move on to the concrete floor. Phil offers Clint the blue chalk and Clint takes it confidently.

When Clint’s drawn a few attempts and has the basics down, Phil sits him on the floor again. “Now it’s time to determine what kind of circle you want to create. I suggest something simple for your first time. How about a magical barrier spell?”

Clint eyes him. “What do you mean?”

Phil lifts his palm and summons a tangle of electrical energy. He isn’t wearing his cufflinks, so it’s more difficult than it would be with them, but he’d mastered this spell years ago. A blue and white flickering thread of electrical energy coils into a ring on his palm.

“This is my binding spell, you remember it?” Clint nods. “It’s a piece of magic, pure magic, which means that if you create a circle that keeps out magical energy, it will repel my spell.” He sends the electricity towards Clint, wrapping it around his wrist like he had yesterday when he’d been bringing Clint in. Clint’s tense, but not violently so. Phil allows it to anchor the two of them together for a moment before waving his hand to dissipate the energy. The spell vanishes.

“Create a circle, stay inside of it, and you’ll be safe. I won’t be able to bind you,” Phil explains.

Clint looks at him, wariness in his eyes. “You’d teach me how to protect myself from you? On my first day?” 

Phil smiles. “I trust you, Clint, and I’ve promised not to keep you here. I meant it.”

Clint holds his gaze for as long as he probably dares, and then looks away, his chest heaving. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe,” Phil agrees. Others have certainly said so, Nick most of all. Phil doesn’t regret his choice, though. He gives Clint a minute, and then when Clint seems calmer, Phil hands him the chalk. He nods him towards the centre of the room. “Go ahead. You can do it, I know you can.”

Clint nods and takes the chalk, avoiding Phil’s eyes as he walks over to the cleared space on the floor. He takes a couple more deep breaths, and then closes his eyes, centering himself. It’s a good idea, and not one that Phil had remembered to teach him. Interesting. 

The atmosphere gains a sharper edge. Phil feels a prickling along his skin, and realizes that the faint air current that always circulates through the basement is gone. The air is perfectly still. 

Finally, Clint opens his eyes. He bends down and draws the circle, his line clean, sure, and smooth. He comes full circle, joins the two ends of the line perfectly, and then stands and steps clockwise until he’s in the centre of the circle. His face is tight, his lips pinched in concentration. Phil draws in a breath to say something, but holds it back. He shouldn’t interrupt Clint.

He doesn’t have to worry. Clint exhales, and his shoulders drop. He looks much more relaxed. Moving with the gracefulness of a dancer, he walks to the edge of the circle and pricks his finger with a lancet. A single drop of blood falls onto the blue line. It flares with cerulean light.

Clint opens his eyes. He stares at the shimmering blue force that protects him from the rest of the world, and blinks. “It worked?”

Phil grins. “It looks like. Let’s check.” He summons his binding spell again, and then directs the electrical coil towards Clint. The spell travels down his arm and then snakes across the floor, but when it hits the outline of the chalk circle, it stops. The circle flashes, a deep, brilliant blue, and effortlessly holds Phil's spell at bay. 

“It worked!” Clint shouts. He pumps his fist into the air. “Ha! It worked! Take _that,_ Duquesne!”

Phil stares. Clint lowers his hand, his elated mood evaporating. Instead of celebrating, he hunches his shoulders. “Uh…”

Phil raises his hands, palms outwards. “I’m not going to ask,” he promises. “You don’t have to explain.”

Clint’s shoulders loosen, but he doesn’t look up again. “Thank you.”

Phil nods. They stand in silence for a moment, and then finally, Phil says, “So, do you want to learn how to break a circle?”

Clint smiles, slowly, and it’s like the sun coming out. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

 

*

 

They practice until dinner time, which is brussel sprouts, broccoli, rice, and chicken. Clint eats everything, seemingly ravenous, and Phil shovels food into his mouth to hold back his questions. 

Who is Duquesne? Was Clint really in the circus? Why is he now living on the street? And, most importantly, if he has someone around, why is that person not looking after him?

“When we’re done, why don’t you take your things and head to the coin laundry down the street?” Phil asks, halfway through their meal. “I’ve got a bundle to be done myself. You can throw your laundry in with mine and we’ll call it even. I can tackle the spare room some more while you’re gone.”

Clint stops eating long enough to eye him. “Sure, I can do that.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Phil admits. “I hate doing laundry. I wish I could keep a machine in the house, but the old ones are clunky and cost more than they're worth in water bills, and the new ones are too fancy for even _my_ electrical control.”

“What’s with magic and technology, anyway?” Clint asks, digging back into his dinner. “Why does magic mess it up so much?”

Phil shrugs. “I’m not entirely sure. I have a friend who looked into it and said they think it’s a Heisenberg thing, that magic disrupts the probabilities of technology, whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean. The end result is that magic tends to short out technology. I have an affinity for electrical magic, so that means I have a little better luck than most wizards, but even I can’t keep a television in the house. I go to the movies sometimes, though. It’s fun.”

“The movies,” Clint says, with a faraway look in his eye. He shakes himself. “Yeah, uh. It sounds like.”

Phil waits, but Clint doesn’t say anything else. 

After dinner, Clint takes his old clothes and a hamper of Phil’s and walks down the street to the laundromat. It isn’t far - Phil can literally see him walk into the building from his front porch - but Clint still shoots Phil a glance as he leaves, like he’s expecting Phil to haul him back by his ear. Phil looks away and pretends he doesn’t notice. He’s promised Clint that he won’t be a prisoner and he intends to honour that.

He _really_ needs to talk to Nick, though. The questions are starting to pile up.

First, Phil has to tackle the spare room. He heads upstairs and tidies up everything he can see. He shoves most of it into his own closet, then puts fresh sheets on the bed and opens the window to let in some air. He grabs the last few pieces of detritus lying about and then races back downstairs to the kitchen and the landline he keeps there. He dials Nick.

“This is Fury,” Nick answers.

“All I have so far is a name,” Phil tells him. “Duquesne. And something about the circus.”

Nick’s exasperation comes through loud and clear. “The circus? Of course, the circus. Stars and stones, Phil. How do you find these people?”

“He found me,” Phil reminds him, “and I’m not kidding, Nick. He said the circus.”

“I know you’re serious,” Nick says, “that’s the point.” He’s silent for a moment, and Phil waits him out. Finally, he sighs. “Okay, tell me everything.”

Phil quickly summarizes the past twenty-four hours. “There’s something about him,” Phil says when he’s done. “I don’t know what it is. He centres himself like an expert, casts a circle perfectly on his first try, but ignores his obvious affinity for wind magic. I know he has some experience with magic, but he’s obviously never been encouraged to experiment before. I don’t think we’re dealing with a cult like we usually are, boss. I think we’re dealing with something else.”

“I’m more interested in how you said he approaches most problems sideways,” Nick tells him. “I like that. I could use a kid like that.”

The front door opens. Phil peers around the wall of the kitchen to see Clint making his way inside with two hampers of clean laundry. He doesn’t bother to lower his voice. “He’s not a kid, Nick. And I’m not recruiting him to S.H.I.E.L.D. for you.”

Clint looks up, frowning. “S.H.I.E.L.D.? And damn right I’m not a kid, I’m twenty-two.”

Phil chuckles into the phone. “There you go, he said it himself: he’s twenty-two.”

He can _hear_ Nick’s eyeroll. “Oh yeah, he’s ancient.” He sorts. “Keep training the kid, Phil. Do the best you can.”

Phil frowns. “I will, but I’m not sure it’ll be enough. He needs expertise I don’t have.”

“Wind magic, right?” Nick asks with a hum. “I could ask around.”

“Uh-huh?” Phil asks dryly. “And how much do you want to bet that these ‘experts’ you find will be agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. perfectly poised to extoll the bounties of joining the organization?” 

“Hey, you said it yourself,” Nick protests without an iota of shame, “you’re not the best one to teach him tricks like that. That’s a flaw with the White Council’s system - having an apprentice is nice if you want a lackey, but it doesn’t give a well-rounded approach. Students are restricted by the inclination of their mentors. Have you thought more about the Academy idea we’ve been bandying about? That would work well for our boy here.”

“He’s not your boy,” Phil protests, “but yes, I have. I think you’re right. It’s an excellent idea, but don’t give it to me. I have enough work to do as it is.”

“You’re not even at work, you’re on paid leave,” Nick points out. 

“I’m hanging up now,” Phil warns him. “Good-bye.”

“Just think about it!” he hears Nick call out, voice tinny. “And call me again tomorrow, I want regular updates, you hear?!”

Phil places the handset back on the receiver with a click. He exhales.

Clint comes back down the staircase, coughing. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Was that your boss?”

Phil smiles. “Yes. He was giving me heck because I’m taking time off work to help you out.”

“You can say ‘shit’, you know,” Clint says with a roll of his eyes. “I’m seriously not a kid.”

“I know,” Phil tells him, averting his eyes. Clint had obviously changed at the laundromat, since he’s wearing a white t-shirt that hugs his shoulders appreciatively, even if it’s hanging off the rest of his frame. 

Phil clears his throat. “He, um, actually mentioned that when we run out of things for me to teach you - which will be soon, if you keep progressing like you were today - than we have an open invitation to swing by the S.H.I.E.L.D. offices sometime. Nick thinks there are a few agents who could help you out.”

Clint starts fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “Yeah?”

Phil nods. “I’m not sure how much you want to learn, this is purely voluntary on your part, but if you were interested in pursuing your obvious affinity for - uh - other types of magic, then Nick thinks he can find someone who could teach you.”

“Oh. Um. Why can’t you just continue to teach me?” Clint asks, looking uncomfortable. “We’re doing okay so far.”

“I’ll teach you what I can,” Phil tries to explain, “but I’m not an expert in most areas. My focus is primarily on electricity and force.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Clint says. “I don’t want to learn anything else.”

“Yes, but - ” Phil starts.

“You said it’s my choice, right?” Clint interrupts. “Then that’s what I choose. Electricity. Force. That sounds perfect. We’ll start with that.” 

Phil opens his mouth. Closes it. “Okay,” he finally says. 

Clint shrugs diffidently. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. I’m only staying for a few more days.”

Phil bites his lip. He doesn’t like the sound of that. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

“A few more days,” Clint repeats firmly, “and then my brother’s coming back. He needs me, so when he comes back, I’m gone.” He darts a look at Phil and then away. “But I’ll learn what I can until then, okay?” 

Phil doesn’t know how to argue with him. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Thanks,” Clint mutters. “Listen, I left your laundry up in your room. Is the spare ready or should I take the couch?”

“The spare room’s all ready, I fixed it up while you were at the laundromat, before I called Nick,” Phil assures him. “If you need, I could help you - ”

Clint turns around and stalks up the stairs before Phil finishes speaking.

“Or not,” Phil amends. He watches Clint walk away, and then turns back and heads into the kitchen. Well, he thinks, finding a seat at the kitchen table and sitting down, that could have gone better. 

 

*

 

Clint is distant towards Phil in the morning. He comes down from his room early and eats a share of the oatmeal Phil’s made again, but he avoids Phil’s eyes whenever possible and he mutters instead of answering directly whenever Phil asks a question.

Phil gives him his space at first, but then he gets tired of it. “I said,” he repeats, pushing, “what do you want to work on today?”

Clint pokes at his oatmeal. “I don’t know.” 

Phil takes a deep breath in and holds it for several moments before letting it out. He reminds himself that Clint is young and scared, and that even being here is probably difficult for him. 

“Clint,” Phil finally says, when he has his irritation under control. “I’m not keeping you here by force. You’re free to leave at any time. I hope you’re here because you _want_ to be here. I’m taking time off work because I think that giving you some magical training will be to your benefit. I’m not your master, and you aren’t my apprentice, but you _are_ my student, at least for the next couple of days. I want to teach you some basic skills. Will you work with me on that?”

Clint flushes. He shoves the last spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then,” Phil says, feeling relieved. “So, talk to me. What do you want to work on today?”

“I - I don’t know, honestly. Electricity, you said. And force. What about those?” He gives Phil a hopeful look. “Can we work on those?”

“We can definitely do some force work,” Phil tells him, “but electricity is kind of a speciality area. I have a natural affinity for it, so it works for me. I’m not sure how much of it I could teach you.” If Clint were staying forever, it’d be different - Phil would spend at least a month figuring out what Clint’s naturally good and bad at, what areas he has to work on and what comes easily to him. They’d figure out a lesson plan that would include all typical areas of magic, including earth, air, fire, water, and force, and then some of the speciality areas like electricity. They’d work in lectures on evocation and thaumaturgy, and Phil would start him on the basics of rune work and potion making. 

They don’t have a month, though - they don’t even have a few weeks. Clint had said days, so Phil will have to figure out the most useful things he can teach him in that time, while, at the same time, doing his best to figure out what toxic situation Clint’s been stuck in and attempting to get him out of it, all without spooking him.

Being a warden is starting to look easy compared to figuring Clint out. 

“What about a shield spell?” Phil offers, thinking. “It won’t be very powerful, and it won’t last very long, but it’s useful magic. It can repel physical attacks and can sometimes be tweaked for energy defense.” 

Clint looks relieved. “That sounds perfect.”

“Okay. Shield spells are better if you have a focus artefact, but we don’t have time to get into rune making now. Mostly it requires concentration and will, and you proved yesterday that you have those two in spades. Let me get some paper and pencils and we’ll draw out the basics, and then we’ll head downstairs and practice for a bit,” Phil offers. “If this goes well, we can work on offensive magic tomorrow. I could show you how to - ”

“No,” Clint interrupts. “Nothing like that, please.” 

Phil blinks. “Why not? Offensive magic is - ”

“No,” Clint says again. His voice is shaking. “I’m serious, Phil.”

“Okay,” Phil agrees, leaning back and raising his hands to show that they’re empty. “Okay, Clint. Defensive magic only.”

Clint exhales, his shoulders coming down. His hands clench and unclench on the table, like he wants to grip something and twist it in his palms. 

“So, shield spells,” Phil says, in an attempt to distract him. “Let’s go over the basics, and then we’ll head downstairs. Shields are a lot like circles, actually, in that you’re creating a barrier between yourself and something else, only, in this case, it’s a barrier made of pure force. Its purpose is to deflect anything that comes at you, usually punches or kicks, but I know someone who makes theirs tough enough to withstand bullets. I don’t think we’ll get that far, but it’s something to aim for.”

Slowly, Clint relaxes, settling into the lecture. He’s an excellent pupil. The same focus he’d put into absorbing circle techniques yesterday is back again today. As he grows comfortable with the subject material, he starts to lean forward, and the questions he asks are all good ones. He makes shrewd observations, too, and a few off-the-cuff comments that make Phil blink. Clint seems to find connections between thoughts that Phil would never have entertained before. By the end of the lecture, _Phil’s_ the one who’s writing stuff down.

After lunch, they head back to the basement. Clint demonstrates that he’s picked up the basics of the technique.

“ _Щит!_ ” he shouts, having decided to use Russian as his magical language. Phil had explained that using a different language insulates the magic, protecting the wizard’s mind from the forces being translated through thought and into action. Latin is the usual staple, but Phil prefers Spanish. He speaks it fluently, and its lilting cadences have always meant _magic_ to him.

When asked, Clint had admitted to knowing some French, but balked at the idea of casting with it. “It wouldn’t be good for my focus,” he’d said, when Phil asked, and then had redirected the conversation by asking if he could use Russian instead. “I knew someone, once,” he’d explained, blushing slightly. “She was kind of mean and terrible, but I liked her.”

“Does the memory of the language have positive associations for you?” Phil had asked, striving to keep his tone level and fighting off a very bizarre attack of jealousy. 

“It does,” Clint had said.

“Okay, then,” Phil had agreed. “Russian it is.”

Phil doesn’t know any Russian himself, so he has no ability to correct Clint’s grammar, but it’s not the mastery of the language that gives it magical direction - it’s the intent. Clint blurts out a word and a pale, shimmering circle of force appears in front of his arm, and _that’s_ the important thing.

“Well done!” Phil exclaims, beaming with pride as Clint holds up the projection. His arm is shaking. “Well done!”

Clint gasps and drops his hand, his entire body shaking with fatigue and elation. “Holy shit!”

“You did it!” Phil praises. “That was excellent. Very well done.”

“I didn’t know it would drain me so fast, Jesus fuck,” Clint gasps. “That’s exhausting.”

Phil nods. “Casting spells without a focus item is always tiring, and you’re just learning how to channel the energy with direction, so that makes it extra difficult. Many wizards use runes or wands or staffs to channel their power. I have spells worked into my cufflinks, as well as a wand that I use for delicate work.” He also has a tie-pin and special shoelaces, and runes carved into the hilt of his combat knife. Nick carries a blasting rod and at least two rings of power. “It’s about whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I could wear rings, maybe,” Clint says, still shaking with exhaustion but standing straighter, now. “I’d have to make sure it didn’t fuck up my shooting, though.”

“Shooting?” Phil asks, before he can think better of it.

Clint shrugs off the question. “Can I try again?” he asks, gesturing to the area in front of his face, where the shield spell had projected.

“Definitely,” Phil promises, tucking away the urge to shake the answers out of him. “This time I’ll get some wood shavings and we’ll see if you can deflect those.”

Clint makes a face. “Wood shavings? Really?”

“We start small,” Phil reminds him. He’s said the same thing several times this morning. “We build from there. Come on, hands up. Let’s do this again.”

Clint successfully deflects the wood shavings, but the effort leaves him pale and shaking. They practice a little more and then Phil calls it a day. 

“That was excellent, Clint. Very well done. You’re picking this up amazingly fast.”

Clint hunches his shoulders, as though he’s uncomfortable with praise, but his cheeks are glowing. “Uh, thanks. You’re right, this is useful magic. I like it.”

“I wish you were staying long enough to make a focus item,” Phil sighs, then lifts his hands and apologizes when Clint scowls. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push. Maybe - maybe if you’re ever in the area again, you can swing by and we can work on it.”

“Yeah,” Clint mumbles. “Maybe.” 

He scuffs his shoe on the floor and Phil’s stomach twists. He shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t mean to, but the words had slipped out without conscious thought. Phil gives himself a mental shake. He’s getting too comfortable here, with Clint, working out of his own home. He’ll have to be on guard for that. “Come on, I’m hungry, which means you’re probably starving. Let’s make ourselves some dinner.”

Clint nods and follows Phil upstairs. He chops vegetables when Phil gives him a knife, stirs the soup, and generally keeps himself quiet. Now that he knows how relaxed Clint can be, the silence feels awkward. 

It calls to mind other awkward times, and Phil chuckles to himself.

Clint looks over at him.

Phil smiles. “I was sixteen the first time I did accidental magic,” he confesses. “My mother was a wizard, but she'd died the year before and I didn’t know she was magical. I was angry at something and I yelled, and the TV shorted out.”

Clint frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. “Really?”

Phil nods. “Really. I tried to pretend that it wasn’t me, that something had fallen on the TV, but I knew my aunt didn’t believe me. Especially not when it happened again a month later. That time it was a radio, and it didn’t just short out, it blew up. The entire kitchen lit on fire. That’s when I knew.” 

The corner of Clint’s mouth ticks up in a grin. “I’m trying to picture you standing in the middle of a smoking wreck, but I can’t quite manage it.”

Phil snorts. “It wasn’t pretty. I panicked and tried to put the fire out, which made my burgeoning magic spin even _more_ out of control. By the time the fire department got there, the microwave was smoking, the stove was on fire, and the fancy extinguisher my aunt had retrieved from the upstairs closet was refusing to work. The fire department couldn’t explain it.”

Clint looks around the kitchen. “Was that here?”

“No, my aunt lived uptown. She tried to do her best by me, but we never really got along. Thankfully for both our sanities, Nick came along shortly after and offered to mentor me. I moved out with him to his property in upstate New York. It was a good place to learn control - nothing but trees and forest and the occasional lake for miles and miles, with no one there to see. I’ve gone back a couple of times since then.”

Clint stares into the distance. “That sounds nice,” he says quietly.

“I’ll take you there someday,” Phil offers, unwilling to call back the words after they’re said. He could pretend that it’s a professional desire, that he wants a chance to teach Clint away from the wandering energies of the city, but that would be a lie. He just suddenly wants to see Clint smile, wants to watch him bask in the stillness, the wonder, of a boreal forest. He knows Clint would look beautiful in the late afternoon sunset, looking up at the sky, with the deep green of overhead leaves the only shadow on his face. “If you come back, I mean, or if you have a couple of days free in the city. Look me up. I’ll drive.”

Clint shakes his head. The fantasy is broken, and they’re once again standing in Phil’s tiny kitchen, cooking soup. Clint is still too thin. Phil watches him refocus his attention on the stove, and then looks away. 

He’s being an idiot. Clint is here because he has nowhere else to go. He isn’t - he _wouldn’t_ … Phil stifles a sigh. As soon as whoever Clint’s partnered with comes back, he’s going to leave. Phil knows that. His job is to teach Clint the basics of what he should know to survive, and to look into the possibility of a cult. Someone has taught Clint the bare basics of magic, and has frightened him in regards to the Council. Finding out who that person is and how dangerous they really are needs to be his top priority. 

Not making Clint smile.

The silence stretches between them again.

“I’m not even sure if it was magic, the first thing I did,” Clint says quietly. 

Phil looks at him quickly. He’s staring at the stove, stirring soup with apparent single-minded intention, but he’s talking. “I was younger, maybe six or seven, and I wanted to hide. There was a tree branch outside that I couldn’t quite reach, and I just - I _jumped_.” He laughs, but the sound is bitter. “When my brother asked how I got into the tree, I told him I used magic. He wasn’t impressed.”

“What happened?” Phil asks, even though he knows the moment the words leave his mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say.

Clint’s mouth tightens. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says, instead of explaining. “He didn’t understand. He was just trying to protect me from Dad.” His eyes cut to Phil. “Dad didn’t like anything new, and he definitely didn’t like make-believe.” 

Phil swallows down the words he wants to say. _Someone should have protected you,_ is probably not what Clint wants to hear. Instead he leans over and dips a spoon into the soup that Clint’s been stirring. Clint tenses, but he doesn’t move. 

“We’re all about new in this household,” Phil says, forcing smile. It’s easier if he focuses on the fact that Clint is here, safe, at least for the moment. “I’ve never made this recipe before, and it looks delicious. Why don’t we sit down and try some?”

Clint’s still tense. He eyes Phil for a moment, searching his face for something Phil can’t see and doesn’t know how to project. He must find it, though, because he relaxes, a tiny smile appearing on his face. “Sure. Who am I to say no to food?”

Phil chuckles. “If you did, I’d _definitely_ be checking for demonic possession.” He hands a spoon to Clint, and watches him take a sip. “What do you think?”

“It’s good,” Clint agrees, swallowing around the hot soup. “It’s very good. Do you want me to get the bowls?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Phil says with a nod, and moves to set the table. Clint is here now, and that’s what’s important. His partner isn’t back yet, and that means Phil has time to get the answers he seeks. He also has time to teach him magic, at least a few more basics, that will help Clint to survive. Phil very carefully doesn’t think about how dangerous the streets are, how very lonely and cold they can be. “I’ll get the rice.”

 

*

 

“I think we should work on fire spells,” Phil says the next morning over breakfast.

Clint tenses across the kitchen. He’s pouring syrup over the pancakes Phil’s made. “Why?”

“Well, fire’s important,” Phil explains, keeping his tone easy. He casually ladles another spoonful of batter onto the griddle. “If you’re trapped somewhere without heat, or if you need to cook something on the run, you don’t always want to rely on conventional sources.” He takes the plate of hot pancakes to the table. 

Clint spears another one and drags it onto his plate. “I’ve always gotten by before. Fire can be… unpredictable. I don’t want to do anything dangerous.”

“Technically, everything we’ve done so far is dangerous,” Phil points out, sitting down. “Magic isn’t a game, Clint. Circles can be used to keep out air and let someone suffocate. That would violate the First Law, of course, but it could still be done.”

Clint looks confused. “What’s the First Law?”

“The First Law of magic - that’s right, we never did talk about that.” Phil takes a deep breath. “There are seven laws of magic, each protected and enforced by the Council. We can go over them in detail later, but the First Law is the most important. It states that one shall not kill using magic.” Phil does his best to keep his voice gentle. “Wizards who break the laws are called warlocks and are hunted down by the Wardens and destroyed.”

Clint pales. “Oh.”

Phil regrets bringing it up. “I’m sorry, but it is something that you need to know. I know you don’t want to do offensive magic, and I respect that, but even inherently defensive magic can be used to do harm. Just like fire magic isn’t necessarily dangerous. The goal will be to summon a finger of flame barely larger than a Bic lighter. It’ll be just so you have a fallback, something you can rely upon in case you're stuck somewhere, or your lighter won’t work.”

Clint licks his lips nervously. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t absolutely have to learn this,” Phil says in an effort to reassure him, “but it’s a basic skill, and most people I’ve worked with have enjoyed it. Fire magic is, well, it’s bright, loud, and often fun. I’m not particularly good at it myself, but even so, fire magic has saved my life more times than I can count.” There had often been times he’d been stranded in the middle of nowhere while chasing a minion of the Red Court, and being able to summon a fire to keep himself alive had stood Phil through many a freezing night. 

Electric magic is a lot of things, but it isn’t exactly warm.

He doesn’t want to think about Clint sitting alone in some abandoned apartment building, huddling around a fire, but he can’t avoid it. He’d seen the camp Clint had made only a few blocks away.

“If you think I really should try it,” Clint says finally, “then okay, I guess so.”

It isn’t exactly an enthusiastic agreement, but Phil will take it. 

In what has become their normal routine, they talk theory throughout the morning and then move to practical applications in the afternoon. Phil has to admit, Clint certainly appears to be trying his very best. He finds the Russian word that feels right, says the invocation, and throws out his hand - but nothing happens. They work on it all afternoon. By the end of it, Clint’s shaking, pale and sweaty, and all he’s managed to do is create a few sparks, and weak looking ones at that.

“So much for fire magic,” he says, finally giving up.

Phil frowns. “Are you sure you’re holding the idea of what you want to accomplish steady in your mind?”

Clint scowls. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m picturing it, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil agrees, lifting his hands into the air. “It’s just that, well, you’ve never had this kind of problem with a spell before.”

Clint glares. “We’ve only been working on this for two days. You can’t expect me to be suddenly good at everything.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Phil says, which is true, even though Clint _has_ been remarkably good at everything so far, “but I do worry that you’re going to make yourself sick. You’re obviously trying, Clint, a blind monkey could see that you’re trying, but what I don’t know is _what_ you’re trying to do. Are you attempting to get the magic out? Or are you trying to keep it in?”

Clint pales. “I’m trying to keep it _safe,_ ” he says. “I’m trying to - ” He drops his hands to his sides and turns away, fists shaking. 

Phil is caught, unsure what to do. “Clint - ” he tries.

“Have you ever been burned before?” Clint asks. He’s standing tensely, shoulders curved inward, his back to Phil and his head bowed.

“Burned?” Phil asks, thrown. “Sure, Clint. I’ve been burned.”

“On what?” Clint scoffs. “An oven door? A hot iron?”

“Yes,” Phil says, trying to figure out what it is that Clint’s asking. “Of course I have.”

Clint swallows. The sound is loud enough to travel. Phil doesn’t know what to do - should he move forward? Should he move back? Does Clint need space or a hug? He’s so unqualified for this…

“Never mind,” Clint says, and his shoulders slump. He turns around. His face is blotchy, but he isn’t crying. “I’m just trying to do what you said, trying to summon fire the size of a Bic lighter, but it isn’t working.”

Phil has no idea what’s going on. “Okay,” he says slowly, drawing out the word to give himself more time to think. “It sounds like some of the difficulty you’re having is concerns about control. What if I construct a circle around us to keep things safe? You can practice your magic within that circle and won’t have to worry about any of the fire you’re trying to summon going outside of it.”

Clint blinks, looking hopeful. “You can keep the fire contained?” 

Phil had promised himself he’d never lie to Clint, so he pushes down his reflexive yes. “It won’t be easy,” he admits instead. “Fire magic has never been my forte, but I’m pretty sure I can do it.” 

“No,” Clint says, shaking his head. “I’m not risking you like that.”

Phil frowns. “Clint - ”

“You haven’t been burned, Phil,” Clint says, and he sounds serious. The words raise goosebumps along the back of Phil’s neck. “I won’t do that to you.”

“Okay,” Phil says, backing down. “You’re in control here, we’ll do it your way. What do you suggest?”

Clint chews on his bottom lip for a minute. “What if I cast the circle,” he asks finally, “and practice the fire magic inside of it? Can I do that?”

“Yes,” Phil agrees, nodding slowly. “It will take a phenomenal amount of mental discipline, though. You’ll have to maintain the circle _and_ attempt an entirely new kind of magic.”

“I’m good at circles, though,” Clint argues. “If I can’t do both, I’ll keep the circle up rather than let the fire spin out of control.” 

“And put yourself at risk?” Phil shakes his head. “No.”

“Well, it’s either that, or we abandon the idea of fire magic altogether,” Clint insists.

“No, we can figure this out, we’re both smart men,” Phil says. “I think the problem is that we’re forgetting the mundane element. I have several fire extinguishers in the house - we’ll get them and keep them at the ready. You’ll stand in the middle of the room and I’ll summon a circle around you. If the fire spills out of control it’ll be difficult to keep contained, but I can do it long enough to reach the extinguishers.”

Clint frowns. “And if something happens and you’re in danger, you’ll run?”

“If something happens and _we’re_ in danger, I’m grabbing _you_ and running,” Phil counters.

Clint blinks. “Really?”

It’s Phil’s turn to frown. “Yes, really. I’m not leaving you behind.”

Clint doesn’t answer. He looks away instead, and Phil remembers that someone _did_ leave him behind. Phil opens his mouth to say something - he’s not sure what - but before he can, Clint squares his shoulders and nods. “Okay, let’s do this.”

It takes longer to set up this time. They retrieve the extinguishers from the upstairs closet and the kitchen pantry and line them up against the wall. Phil draws a circle using blue chalk, building up in his mind what he’s going to do. The familiar process settles him. So much of magic is preparation, repetition, and routine - a wizard has the power to transmute thoughts into physical actions that can affect the real world, and that means that mental discipline is key.

Clint seems to have mental discipline in spades - he appears to be very good at ordering his thoughts when it comes to actions. Phil’s heard that some people are naturally good at that kind of thing, chess players and olympic athletes, for example. People who practice something over and over again inside their mind. Phil wonders if Clint plays chess.

“Okay,” Phil says, when he’s joined the two lines of chalk and found that quiet place inside his mind. “I’m ready.”

Clint doesn’t answer with words, but he nods. He moves to stand in the centre of the circle Phil’s drawn and closes his eyes. He breathes. Phil can’t help but watch him, just for a minute, before bending down to make sure that his circle is complete and ready to go. He holds the lancet in his hand, loosely, just in case he needs to activate it. 

Phil’s never been particularly good at fire magic, but he _is_ good at shields, and if he activates the circle, he’ll be able to hold the heat of the fire back for a couple of minutes. It’ll be enough to grab Clint and run for the extinguishers, which is all he’ll need to do.

Clint stays silent for another minute inside the circle. Gradually, the air stills. Phil feels a prickling along his back, a rising sense of power, and then Clint throws out his hand. “ _гонь!_ ”

Fire blazes to life. It’s larger than a lighter's flame, more like the size of a globe, and it’s a heavier, denser fire than Phil was expecting. Instead of a flickering flame, this is a molten ball, a sphere of lava that flashes with dark power. 

Clint looks shaken, but he holds on to his control. Phil can see him shaking. “Siphon away the power!” he calls, raising his voice so he’ll be heard. “Remember what we talked about this morning - fire magic is fueled by emotion. It can be channeled using anything, but anger and fear are powerful, and they translate well. Understand your fear, and control it - draw it back inside of you. Leave the fire, but keep it small. Its purpose is to warm you, to cook your food, to keep you safe. That’s what it’s there for. That’s why you summoned it. Hang on to that.”

Clint’s obviously trying, but he looks scared. “I can’t do it!” he shouts back, after a moment. “I don’t like fire, Phil. I don’t - ” His voice is shaking.

“Clint, look at me,” Phil instructs. He knows his circle is powered and ready to go, but he doesn’t activate it yet. He knows he won’t need to. He has faith in Clint. 

Reluctantly, Clint looks away from the ball of fire and meets Phil’s eyes. The flickering shadows cast by the lava keep the soulgaze at bay, but Phil can still feel it, gathering at the edges of his mind. 

“You can do this,” Phil tells him. He knows that Clint can, he can feel it in his bones. “You have the control. Picture that control in your mind. Breathe in and then out. The power is yours, the emotion is yours. It belongs to you, and to no one else.”

Clint’s breath hitches. His eyes widen, but then he looks at Phil’s face, into his eyes, and something settles him. He breathes out. 

“That’s it,” Phil coaxes. “In and out, in and out. You can do this.”

Clint nods. The lava is settling. The flickering shadows change shape. Phil has to break off their eye contact, because the power behind the soulgaze is gathering, but that’s okay, because Clint is closing his eyes. He breathes again, in and out, and the last scent of heavy power leaves the air. The lava is gone. All that’s left in Clint’s hand is a ball of fire, regular fire, that flickers peacefully.

“That’s it,” Phil says, keeping his voice low. “Very well done, very good. Now make it small, Clint. You don’t need that much fire, you just need a tiny drop. A little flame. Take that warm energy, and settle it inside of you. Remember that fire is just another force, like air and earth and water. Fire just is, and this fire is a part of you. Own it. Control it. It’s yours.”

He’s talking to make soothing noise more than anything else, but it seems to be working. Clint’s stance widens, becomes more stable, and the flame in his hand starts to shrink. He draws it down until it’s the size of his thumb, just a small jet of flame, and Phil breaks out into a smile. “That’s wonderful, Clint! Very well done!”

Clint huffs, and then the flame goes out. His shoulders slump. Phil rushes forward, making it to Clint just in time to catch him before he falls. He lowers him gently to the floor.

“Easy, there. Easy,” Phil murmurs. “You’re okay.” Now that the danger is past, he becomes aware that his heart is racing. What the hell had he been _thinking,_ pushing Clint to do fire magic when it was obvious he didn’t want to? No warm meal on a cold day was worth almost getting Clint burned to death on his third day of training! 

Clint cracks an eye open. He must see something on Phil’s face, because he smiles. “I’m okay. Thank you, Phil.”

“‘Thank you?’” Phil echoes. He chokes. “I nearly got you killed!” He’s shaking. His hands are trembling. This is always the way it’s been with him, ever since the wardens. He’s cool and calm under pressure, but when it’s over, the emotion comes rushing back. It’s never been this bad before, though.

“Maybe,” Clint says, unconcerned, “but it’s my fault, too. I should have told you.”

“That you hate fire? Yes, you definitely should have,” Phil agrees, “but I should have asked. I shouldn’t have pushed. You’re my student, if even only for a little while, and that means that your safety is my number one concern.”

Clint smiles. He’s sitting on the cold floor of Phil’s basement, half on Phil’s lap and half pulled across his chest, but his muscles are relaxed, only the slightest tremor of exhaustion running through them. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Phil swears to him. “Of course I do.”

Their eyes meet, and the gathering power of the soulgaze is there. Phil tears his eyes away. The sensation lingers, a slowly dissipating force, and Phil very carefully waits for it to leave. That was close. The soulgaze came on quickly that time, maybe because of the emotions still churning through him, or maybe because of the prolonged eye contact they’d had a few moments before.

“Come on,” Phil says eventually, tugging Clint to his feet. “We need to get upstairs and wrap you in blankets. You’re headed for an energy crash. You just expended a whole bunch of energy in a previously untested way, and it didn’t exactly go to plan. I’ll make hot chocolate and we’ll sit in the living room. I don’t have a TV, but I could read out loud if you like? How do you feel about mindless sci fi?”

“That sounds perfect,” Clint says, already sounding exhausted. “Lead the way.”

 

*

 

The spend the evening curled up on Phil’s couch, surrounded by pillows and blankets and endless cups of hot chocolate. Phil digs out his _Star Wars_ novelizations, and gets them halfway through _A New Hope_ before his voice gives out. Clint had fallen asleep by chapter three, but Phil hadn’t wanted to wake him, so he’d read on as much as he could. Now he closes the book and lays his head back on a pillow, telling himself he’ll just close his eyes for a minute, no more.

He wakes up to bright sunlight, a cheerful beam having darted its way past the skyscrapers to shine on Phil’s closed lids. He smiles into the warmth before remembering where he is and blinking his eyes open, glancing over at the other side of the couch. Clint is still here, only instead of the round ball he’d fallen asleep into, he’s now a stretched out, barely visible human burrito, having burrowed his way into a nest of blankets. His socked feet have snuck across the couch and tucked themselves under Phil’s thighs. Phil makes no effort to move. Instead, he takes the opportunity to look his fill, soaking in the pleasure of Clint’s presence on his couch and in his life. Clint smiles in his sleep, and Phil’s heart clenches.

He wants this. He wants to always wake up to this.

Clint shifts and stirs. Phil looks away, trying to bury his desires back deep inside, while Clint stretches. When he blinks himself awake, a momentary look of confusion crosses his face before he sees Phil and his expression clears. He smiles. “Good morning. Did I fall asleep on you last night?”

“We both did,” Phil confesses, trying not to focus on how soft and adorable Clint looks when he’s freshly rumpled and waking up. “Come on, I’ll put some coffee on. Do you want the bathroom first?”

“Please,” Clint agrees, and stands up. He stretches languidly, arms rising into the air, and Phil can’t help but track the sliver of skin that’s revealed. “Is it okay if I shower?”

“Yes,” Phil answers, his mouth dry. He coughs. “Uh, yes. Of course.”

Clint shoots him a grin and then pads away, his socked feet soundless on the wood stairs. Phil tears his gaze away. Instead of following Clint and touching him, tapping him on the shoulder and then kissing him, he walks over to the kitchen. He’s got to stay focused. Clint needs his help, not his ogling.

“Let’s do some more fire magic today,” Clint says eagerly ten minutes later, hair still damp from the shower. He’s clad in soft sleep clothes, part of the set Phil had left for him in the spare room, and he looks unfairly adorable. “I know it was, well, it was scary as fuck, but it was good, too. I feel like I got it, sort of.”

“You did,” Phil agrees, pouring them each a coffee. He’d been sitting there staring at the pot for the past ten minutes, trying to keep his mind away from the fact that Clint was wet and naked not thirty feet away “You definitely did, especially there at the end. I think you should leave it for a day or two, though. Let things settle inside your mind. You don’t want to push yourself too hard too fast. Yesterday was pretty traumatic. I think we should work on simple stuff today, maybe just lectures, no practice application. I was thinking maybe tracking spells.”

Clint frowns. “I don’t need to learn tracking spells, I can do those in my sleep.”

Phil looks up. “Really?” he asks. Clint never talks about what magic he can do, even though he’d bragged to Phil that first day that he could do something.

Clint shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, and we don’t have much time left, so I want to make sure I know what I know before I go, you know? I think we should do fire again.”

Phil puts the coffee down. “That isn’t a good idea,” he says seriously. “I’m sorry, Clint, but you’re here with me because I said I would teach you, and that means teaching you your limits as well as everything else. You’re good, Clint, and you’re picking things up amazingly fast, but you’re still human. You need to rest. You’re pushing your body in ways it’s never been used before, stretching your brain in a totally new manner. They both need time to recover from that experience.”

“But - ” Clint argues.

Phil shakes his head. “No.”

Clint scowls, but he drops down into a kitchen chair, picking up the coffee and cradling it close to his chest. “Fine,” he agrees mulishly. “No tracking spells, though.”

Phil shrugs. “You might be able to do the magic, but I doubt you know the theoretical underpinnings of the process, and if you do, you can sleep through the lecture. I won’t be offended.”

Clint’s expression stays frustrated, but he doesn’t fall asleep. Phil talks about tracking spells for an hour. He does his best to tie the theory into things they discussed earlier in the week, linking together concepts to help Clint understand the far-reaching web of magic and the useful applications of everything it can do. 

Clint’s shoulders gradually relax, and he finishes off his breakfast and goes back for seconds while Phil detours into thaumaturgy. They break for dishes and Phil’s turn in the shower, and then return for lunch, Phil still explaining concepts while Clint chops cucumbers for a salad.

Suddenly, Clint stiffens. Phil looks over in surprise. Clint’s shoulders are tense and he’s looking to his left, eyes unfocused as he seems to be staring at something far beyond Phil’s walls. 

“Clint?” he asks, concerned. “Are you okay?”

Clint blinks. “What? Yes.” He’s still holding the knife, and his hands are shaking. He goes to put it down but it slips and he cuts himself. “Ow! Shit!”

Phil grabs a paper towel and presses it to Clint’s hand. He’s nicked his thumb, and it’s bleeding quite a lot. The cut itself looks shallow, though. “Here, let me put some pressure on it.”

“Yeah, sure. Dammit! Fuck, that really smarts.” He looks distressed.

Phil holds the paper towel in place. Clint’s hands are still shaking - Phil can feel the fine tremors under his skin. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, distracted. His eyes are still unfocused. “I’m fine, it’s just a cut.”

“I know, I mean - ” Phil breaks off. He doesn’t know how much to push. “Did something happen?”

“What?” Clint looks at him. He seems to suddenly become aware of how close they’re standing, because he stills. The tremors abruptly cease. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Phil says. He’s still holding Clint’s hand in his palm. Clint’s barely an inch and a half away, his breath warm on Phil’s face. His eyes are wide and dark, brilliant and so, so beautiful. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Clint swallows. Phil tracks the bob of his throat, and then the pass of his tongue over his lips, when Clint licks them. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Fuck, but he wants to kiss him.

“I’ve got to go,” Clint says suddenly, jerking his hands out of Phil’s grip. He stumbles backwards across the kitchen, and his eyes cut away, looking anywhere but at Phil. “My clothes, I got blood on them. I’m gonna - ” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the stairs.

“Sure,” Phil says, his heart still pounding. He’s cold in the places where Clint was nearly touching him. “Of course.”

Clint nods. His eyes flicker once to Phil before darting away, and then he’s gone and up the stairs, the door to his bedroom closing sharply behind him with an audible _click_.

Phil sucks in a breath. This is his fault. He spends two minutes just breathing, willing himself to calm down. He’s got to get it together, he’s got to - 

“So, hey, I’m leaving,” Clint says.

Phil jerks his head up. Clint’s standing in his kitchen, dressed in the clothes he was wearing the day Phil first found him. He fills them out better now, even though he hasn’t really put on weight. The hollowness of his cheeks has thinned a little, though. He looks nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his old bag in his hand. His eyes are firmly on the floor and away from Phil. 

“It’s been fun, thank you for teaching me and all. I really - well, I really enjoyed it. A lot. I learned a lot. Thank you.” His eyes dart up once and then away again. He shifts, and this time he steps backwards, his feet moving him closer towards the door. “So, bye.”

Phil doesn’t know what to say. “I - ” he starts. He’s completely thrown. Is this because of what almost happened? Is this his fault? “I didn’t - ”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s been good, Phil. Thanks for your time. Take care of yourself.” Clint turns. The front door opens. Closes. The silence of the house is suddenly absolute.

Clint’s gone.

Phil stands alone in his abruptly empty kitchen and sucks in a sharp breath. What the hell? What the hell just happened?

He looks down at the lunch they’d been in the middle of preparing. There’s still left over chicken and half-constructed salad. He should have packed Clint a lunch. He should have - have given him some money, or the clothes he’d been wearing, or, at the very least, his _phone number,_ so that Clint could reach him if he ran into difficulties, or had a question, or…

Phil stares at the food on the table for another minute before making an executive decision. “Fuck it,” he mutters, and walks quickly to the front door. He opens it. “Clint - ?”

But Clint is gone. Phil looks around. The sidewalk is bustling, but Clint isn’t there. Phil checks up and down the street, the laundromat across the street, the coffee shop up the way, but he doesn’t spy a dirty-blonde head anywhere. Phil curses as he heads back inside. He’s got to do something, he can’t just -

He looks down at the bloody paper towel still clenched in his hands. He blinks. Of course.

His grandfather’s compass is in impeccable condition. Phil keeps it clean and carefully maintained, because it was his mother’s before him and he has a deep respect for all of her things. It’s perfect for magical work, too, being almost a century old. 

Phil clears off his kitchen table and sets the compass down. He grabs a container of salt and lays out a quick circle, then places the bloody paper towel at the N that points north. _“Para realizar un seguimiento,”_ Phil chants, linking the towel to the compass in his mind. _“Encuentra el Clint.”_

The compass needle wavers. Phil can feel his magic pulling at him, resistant in a way it hasn’t been in years. “I’m not trying to find him to convince him to stay,” Phil says out loud, speaking to the geas he’d levered on himself the day he promised Clint he wouldn’t be a prisoner in Phil’s house. “I just want to make sure that he’s okay, give him some food and my phone number in case of emergencies. He’ll still be free to leave.”

His magic flickers, as if it’s questioning his motives, but then stabilizes. Phil breathes out a sigh of relief. He’d never be able to find Clint without it. “Thank you.”

The compass needle spins. When it stops, it’s no longer pointing north. Instead, it’s vibrating towards the southeast. Phil quickly breaks the circle and grabs a card off his fridge. He scratches out the number of the laundromat and scrawls on his personal phone number, and then adds Nick’s business number as well. Clint might have left because of what almost happened this morning, which means he might not want to deal with Phil again. That’s fine. Phil just wants him to have someone to call if he needs backup, someone who’ll give him a chance. He knows he can convince Nick to take that phone call. Nick already wants Clint to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.

He’s going to be disappointed when he learns how badly Phil’s screwed up, but that’s a problem for another day. Right now Phil has to find Clint.

Grabbing the closest jacket that happens to be at hand - it’s one of his suit jackets - Phil stuffs the business card into the inside pocket and then hurriedly throws the lunch he’d been making into a bag and adds whatever leftovers he can find in the fridge. He knows how hungry Clint gets after a couple of hours. He dashes to the basement just long enough to grab Clint’s chalk and paints, and the salt he’d been using as his own, before hurrying out the door, locking it behind him while he holds the compass in his hand and concentrates on finding Clint.

There. South-by-southeast. 

Phil rushes by busy commuters, following the compass as it leads him to a quieter part of town, a bank of warehouses nestled between skyscrapers, dim light casting shadows on the parking lots and loading docks. Phil looks around for Clint. He hears him before he sees him, his voice pleading in a way Phil’s never heard before.

“I’m telling you, Barney, we don’t have to do this. I can get a job, a _real_ job, where they’ll pay me and everything. We can take this and go, we can get away from Duquesne.”

Phil edges carefully around the corner. He sees a white van filled with unmarked boxes, standing alone in an empty lot. Clint is beside it, along with another man that has to be his brother. He looks older than Clint, harder, but there’s no mistaking the shape of his nose. 

“Get a real job? Doing what?” the brother asks. He sounds rough, a bluster born of fear. “No one will hire us, Clint. I know, I’ve _looked_.”

“This is different,” Clint protests. “It’s - ” He hesitates. “It’s a magic thing.”

His brother pales. “No.”

“I’m telling you,” Clint presses, “I - ”

“No! Jesus _Christ,_ Clint. You dumb _fuck_. What the fuck are you getting into? You _know_ what Duquesne said - ”

“Duquesne lied!” Clint shouts. His voice rings out. “He lied, Barney! The Council isn’t evil, they aren’t going to kill me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Barney challenges. “Did you tell them? Did you tell them what you did?”

Clint’s voice falters. “I don’t - ”

“You better not have, because they will _kill_ you,” Barney hisses. He leans forward. Phil can see the butt of a gun sticking out of his belt. “I’ve spent the past ten years doing whatever it took to keep you alive, and I will _not_ let you throw your life away because some uptight Council dog has decided that he’s using you to bring Duquesne in. I’m _not_.”

“It’s not like that,” Clint rasps. “It’s not - _he’s_ not. Phil wouldn’t.”

“‘Phil?’” Barney echoes. “Well this ‘Phil’ better keep his fucking distance, because I am not letting anyone cut my baby brother’s head off with a sword.”

Phil figures that his cue to enter. He steps around the corner with both hands up, the grocery bag containing Clint’s things hanging loosely from his grip. “I would never let that happen.”

Clint and Barney whirl to face him. Clint looks surprised, but Barney recovers quicker, pulling out his gun and leveling it at Phil. His hands are steady and his eyes are hard.

“Phil,” Clint chokes out, his eyes wide.

“Clint, I’m not here to convince you to stay,” Phil promises, speaking to him and ignoring Barney and the gun. “I just came to give you your things, some food, and a little bit of money. I - ” He falters. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

Clint licks his lips. His eyes dart to Barney and then back again. “Thanks.”

“But I want you to know that you _can_ stay,” Phil says. He can feel his magic flicker at him, a warning, but he ignores it. This is more important. “Nick didn’t lie to you, and neither did I. There’s a place for you in S.H.I.E.L.D., if you want it.”

Clint swallows, but Barney shakes his head. “You can’t protect him,” he tells Phil, his voice hard. His grip on the gun never wavers. “I’ve heard about what happens to people like him. They’ll kill him for what he’s done.”

Clint’s face is pale. He stares at Phil. 

Phil wants to ask, but he can’t. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Phil knows Clint, and he isn’t evil. Whatever he’s done, anything he’s done, there has to be a rational explanation for it. 

“Well, well, well,” a new voice interrupts. Phil starts and turns. There’s a slender man emerging from an alley. He’s tall with pinched, aristocratic features, and he speaks with a strong French accent. “What do we have here? The van is full, and you haven’t called me. You weren’t planning on double-crossing me, were you, _mes petits garçons?_ ”

Barney immediately lowers the gun and steps in front of Clint, angling his body to protect his little brother. “Of course not, Mr. Duquesne. We were just having a family disagreement.”

“Oh?” Duquesne asks, looking at Phil. His body is loose, confident, and there’s a subtle pull emanating from the space around him. The air becomes hot, and there’s a distant smell of smoke. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is,” Barney says, trying to act confident but exposing his fear. He’s obviously terrified of Duquesne. “But it’s over now. Clint’s friend was just leaving.”

“Ah, your _friend,_ ” Duquesne says archly. He turns and eyes Phil’s clothes. Phil’s wearing jeans, but they’re a dark wash, and with the suit jacket he'd grabbed when he ran out the door, he probably looks like a fed. “Is this the friend from the jewelry store? The one who made us leave you behind?” 

Phil smiles tightly. His hands are still up, so he keeps them there. “I didn’t _make_ you do anything. You left Clint all on your own.” 

Duquesne shrugs. “Nothing I do is without reason. Everything has a purpose - a lesson. Clint’s lesson was that he needs to smarten up and do what I say, when I say it.” Duquesne looks at Barney. “Like his brother. Barney here has learned how to obey me, haven’t you, _enfant?_ ”

Barney swallows, but he doesn’t move away from his brother. “Yes, Mr. Duquesne.”

“That’s right,” Duquesne says. “Now, make the fed go away and get in the van, Barney. We have work to do. Clint, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in, too.”

Clint swallows. “I - ”

Barney looks over his shoulder at Clint. “Get in the van, you idiot,” he hisses.

Clint shakes his head. His eyes cut to Phil. “Barney, I - ”

“I’m just going to give you my phone number,” Phil says, dropping the grocery bag filled with food and Clint’s things to the ground. It hits the pavement and splits, contents rolling out. Phil ignores them and reaches for his inside jacket pocket. “I’m going to - ”

A shot rings out.

Phil staggers. Something has punched him in the chest. It hurts, but it’s a distant sensation. He looks down. There’s a red stain spreading over his white shirt, which is strange, because he didn't drink any cranberry juice this morning. “I liked this shirt.”

_“Phil!”_

Phil’s knees give out. His vision tilts backwards, the sky is suddenly - impossibly - close, but then it’s okay, because Clint is there. He looks shocked and worried and angry, but he’s still beautiful, even with his face red and blotchy with unshed tears. “Hi, Clint.”

“Fucking Christ, Phil, hang on! Just hang on, okay?” Clint looks over his shoulder at his brother. “You shot him!”

“He was going for a gun!” Barney shouts. “Just - just who cares?” His voice shakes with fear. “Leave him and get in the van!” 

Clint ignores him, turning back to Phil. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay. I’m going to put pressure on the wound, to stop the bleeding. Stay with me, Phil.” 

Phil tries to nod, but it hurts, and then Clint’s hands come down on his chest, and it hurts _more_. “No,” he says weakly, pawing at Clint’s hands. “Stop.”

“Shut up,” Clint argues. “Shut up and help me, help me get - ” He fumbles inside Phil’s jacket for his pocket, finding the card with Nick’s phone number on it but not much else. “Fucking magic, no cell phones, right.” He looks over his shoulder at Barney. “Call an ambulance!”

Barney looks pale. His hands on the gun aren’t steady any more, they’re shaking. Phil wonders dimly if he’s ever shot anyone before. “I - I can’t.”

“That’s right, he can’t,” Duquesne says from somewhere nearby. He strolls casually into view, looking down at the scene with an arrogant eye. “Barney lost the ability to make most conscious decisions years ago. Mental influences are a tricky thing.” He glances at Phil with a shrug, like one old buddy to another. “Ah, well, I’ll do better next time. Clint will be an excellent test subject, won’t you, _enfant?_ ”

“Fuck you,” Clint chokes out. His hands never move away from Phil’s chest. 

Duquesne shrugs. “You can fight it, but you’ll fail. You’ll never be stronger than me, boy. Now,” he says, his voice hardening, “listen to your brother and get in the van.”

Phil flinches at the power running through his voice. It’s... oily... somehow, like a stain slicking over his mind. Clint hunches his shoulders against the intrusion, but he doesn’t move. Phil can almost see him calling upon the mental disciplines he’s spent the past several days honing. 

Duquesne must see it too. “Clint,” he says, the name now a veiled threat, “ _listen_ to your brother and _get_ in the _van._ ”

Abruptly, Clint’s shoulders relax. His hands let up on Phil’s chest, and when he speaks, there’s a note of defeat in his voice. “Yes, Mr. Duquesne,” he says.

“No,” Phil chokes out. “No, Clint! Don’t go with him!”

Clint shakes his head and stands. “I’m sorry,” he says to Phil. “Don’t die.”

“No, please,” Phil pleads. He needs to do something, he needs to save Clint. He tries to move, but white hot agony flares in his chest. “Please, no. Run, Clint. Run away from him!” He should have pushed harder when Clint was safe in his house, should have asked for more information about who his partner was and what he was afraid of. Now he’s helpless. 

Clint keeps walking. He’s past Duquesne now, who looks pleased. He shoots Phil a triumphant smirk before turning to follow Clint. “Good boy,” he says, and Phil shudders at the slimy victory in his voice. “Now take your brother’s hand and get in the van.”

Clint’s back is to Phil, but Phil can see him nod. “Yes, Mr. Duquesne,” he says. His head is still down. He keeps walking, but then he stumbles, his foot catching on the pavement under his shoe. He gets his hands up in front of him, but he goes down to his knees.

“Idiot boy,” Duquesne mutters.

Instead of hitting the ground, though, Clint _moves._ The chalk and salt from Phil’s grocery bag have rolled to where he’s kneeling and, snake-fast, Clint’s hand darts over and grabs at his supplies. “ _Щит!_ ” he shouts, thrusting out his hand so his open palm pushes towards Duquesne.

A wall of force appears in front of Clint’s hand, the shield spell they’d been practicing, only instead of remaining motionless as a protective wall in front of his face, it flies towards Duquesne with visible force. The wall of power hits him squarely in the forehead and flings him off his feet. He goes flying. Clint turns and runs back to Phil, sliding across the pavement like a baseball player, chalk already in hand. He’s drawn a full circle around them both and is just pricking his finger with a folding knife when Duquesne roars and levers himself to his feet.

Clint hurriedly slams his hand down on the circle and activates it, smearing his blood across the chalk. A blue-white flicker of protective force comes up, just in time to deflect the angry ball of fire Duquesne flings at them both.

Clint hunches himself protectively around Phil, but the circle stops the fire.

 _“Clinton!”_ Duquesne shouts.

Barney looks terrified, but impressed. He stares at Clint and the circle with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Get out of here!” Clint shouts at his brother, screaming to be heard over the sound of Duquesne chanting in French. Great, flickering fireballs blast out of his hands and hammer continuously at Clint’s shield. “Run! I’ll hold him off!” He turns back to Phil, pressing his hand down on Phil's chest. “Hold on, Phil, just hold on! Don’t die on me, _please._ ”

Phil does his best to stay conscious. “I thought he had you,” he confesses wetly. It’s getting difficult to breathe.

“He almost did,” Clint admits. “He did for a while there, before you took me in, before you showed me what _real_ magic is. It isn’t about hurting people or just surviving, I know that now.”

“You’re right,” Phil tells him. He coughs. “You have to go, though, Clint. You have to get out of here. You can’t keep this up forever, and then Duquesne will come. You have to run while you still can.” He lifts his arm, trying to get at his pocket. “Take my card, there’s a number on it. Nick - Nick’s number.” The world is starting to go grey around the edges. “Call him, and - ” He blinks, and it’s harder to open his eyes than it should be. “He can - he can help you - ”

“No, Phil. No!” Clint pleads. “Come on, stay with me, please!”

“I - ” His limbs feel heavy, like he’s wearing leaded weights. “I want to,” Phil confesses, “but I don’t think I can. I want to - you’re so beautiful, Clint - ”

“Phil,” Clint chokes. His hand comes down gently on Phil’s face. Phil can feel the touch like a burn, marking him from the outside in. “Phil, _please_.”

Phil struggles to open his eyes. Clint’s face is right there, and he wants to look at him. He’s so beautiful, so strong and intelligent, so curious to learn and cagey about his past. Phil wants to spend the rest of his life getting to know him, he wants to wake up every morning like he did today. “Clint…”

Clint stares at him. His eyes are remarkable, blue-green-gold and shifting, a kaleidoscope of colours. “Phil…”

The soulgaze grabs them both. Phil doesn’t have the strength to stop it. The world tips forward and Phil falls into Clint’s eyes. He sees smoke for a moment, and then it clears, and then Phil sees Clint as he really is.

He’s dangerous. There’s darkness around him, swirling at his feet, draping itself over his shoulders, and whispering in his ears. The darkness has faces, and they cast doubt, drawing Clint away and out of himself. 

The darkness doesn’t have him yet, though, because Clint is still a being of beautiful golden light. He stands still, not arrogantly, but watchful, and his soul is strong, emotional, intelligent, and filled with joy. He’s perfect in every way, except for one tiny scar. It sits at the centre of his chest, right next to his heart, and it beats in time with the darkness around him. Phil can see the way Clint’s folded purple energy over it, holding it in, containing it, but doing so weakens him. It gives the demons around him strength, adding to their deceitful calls. 

Phil thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “I want to spend forever with you.”

The world swims back into focus again. Clint’s still crouching in front of him. He looks pale, shaken, but he hasn’t run screaming yet. “Phil…” he whispers.

“Go,” Phil pleads, raising one arm enough to push weakly at Clint's chest. “Please, save yourself. Duquesne doesn’t have you yet. Run.”

Clint’s shakes his head. “Not without you.”

Phil knows they don’t have that kind of time. “It’s too late for me. Please, Clint. Go.”

“No.” Clint says the word simply, but it’s filled with dark power. He raises one hand and summons a shield spell, and then presses it lightly down onto Phil’s chest. He mutters a Russian word Phil’s never heard before, something that must mean _stay,_ because when he stands to face Duquesne, the shield spell lingers, pressing down. Phil can almost feel it keep the blood out of his lungs.

Phil feels a stab of pride, and then one of fear, because Clint is currently maintaining two spells at once - the circle still working to hold back Duquesne’s attack, and now the shield. That’s an exorbitant amount of energy for a new wizard to be putting out, and if one of the spells has to fail, Phil worries that Clint will save the shield.

“Please,” he tries, one more time, desperate for Clint to just cut his losses and run. “Clint…”

But Clint ignores him, turning instead to fully face Duquesne, his hands resting lightly by his sides. Poised on the balls of his feet, he looks ready, and dangerous. Phil’s fear grows. Clint can’t kill Duquesne using magic, not even in self-defense. That would break the first First Law.

Duquesne sees him readying himself, and smiles. “So,” he says, dropping his own hands to his sides. The fire attack stops, but Duquesne doesn’t even look winded. It’s obvious that fire is his element and that he has a lot of power left. “The _enfant_ has learned some skills. Very good. Maybe you’ll be a worthy apprentice after all.”

Clint looks disgusted. “Is that what you thought you were doing? Training us?”

“Of course. I taught you what you needed to know - what was useful to know. I never thought you could do more than that. It’s obvious now that you can. Join me, Clint,” he says, his dark eyes glittering. “Together, we will rule this city.”

“Not a chance,” Clint growls. “The Council will stop you. I’ve met them, Duquesne. They are as strong and as powerful as you always said they were, and more.”

Duquesne gaze turns hard. “I’ve survived the Council before. I can do so again.”

“Not with me hunting you,” Clint challenges. “I’m going to stop you, Duquesne. I’m going to make sure you can never hurt anyone the way you’ve hurt Barney and me ever again.”

Duquesne throws back his head and laughs. “Stop me? How? They’ll never let you join the Council - they’ll learn what you’ve done and kill you themselves.”

Phil chokes. _No,_ he wants to promise, _I’ll never let them,_ but he can’t catch the air he needs to say it.

Clint merely shrugs, unconcerned. “Maybe. Before I die, though, I’ll give them all the information they need to destroy you. I’ll tell them about every hiding place, every job. I’ll tell them every weakness you have.”

Duquesne eyes glitter with hatred. “I have no weaknesses.”

“Yes, you do,” Clint says, and then moves with shocking speed. He bends from the waist and snatches up a pebble on the ground, then steps forward to slide his toe across the chalk line and break the circle. At the same time he raises his hands and summons a shield spell - not a moment too late, because the instant the circle falls, Duquesne sends a burst of fire straight towards Clint’s head.

The shield spell stops some of it, but not very much. Phil can feel the wave of heat it generates. Still, at least Clint’s standing, even if his arms are red and already starting to blister.

Phil tries to summon the strength for a spell, but he can’t get enough air. He has to do _something_ though. Clint won’t survive another blast like that.

Clint must know it, too, because even before Phil’s finished the thought, he moves. He vaults to the side in a gymnast's leap, tumbling head over heels before springing back to his feet. He throws the pebble still clutched in his hand hard enough and fast enough - and with such pinpoint accuracy - that it strikes Duquesne in the middle of his ring finger, and the _crack_ that results is audible even to Phil’s failing ears.

“Aughh!” Duquesne screams, dropping his hands. He cradles the arm to his chest. “You broke my hand!”

“That’s not all I’ll break,” Clint promises, and then pushes his hands together and _heaves._

The spell must be an adaptation of the shield spell - it’s a wall of pure force that appears from under Duquesne’s feet and throws him to the ground. He goes tumbling, and Clint takes off at a run, sprinting to his brother’s side where Barney’s still standing, shaking with the effort to move.

Clint looks at him and their eyes meet. Barney nods. Clint wraps his hand around Barney’s, still clutching the gun, and they turn as one towards Duquesne.

_Bang!_

The sound of the gun going off is shockingly loud. Duquesne screams again, a long high note, and then crumples to the ground. Phil can see that the brothers have gotten him in the knee - he tries to rise, but cries out again.

Clint breathes out, a long sigh, and then tightens his hand around Barney’s. “Are you okay?”

Barney doesn’t look away from Duquesne. His voice is flat, but at least he speaks. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. Here.” He pulls out a cell phone out of one pocket and hands it to Clint. “Use that to call nine-one-one.”

Clint looks relieved. He sprints back Phil, already dialing. Barney walks towards Duquesne and kicks him in the shattered knee. Duquesne screams before passing out.

Phil winces, but stops because it hurts. Barney doesn’t move, standing guard over the unconscious Duquesne with his hand still wrapped around the gun. 

Clint finally seems to get through to emergency services. “Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance to - ” He looks around, catches sight of a street sign, and gives them the address. “It’s a little cul-de-sac behind some office buildings,” he adds. “Someone’s been shot in the chest. He’s still breathing, and I’ve got pressure on it, but - hello? Hello?”

The crackle over the line is audible even to Phil. He tries to chuckle, but it hurts. Damn magic.

Clint goes to his knees by Phil’s side. “It’s okay, I think they got the gist of it. How are you doing, Phil? You’re going to be okay, help will be here soon.”

Phil wants to respond, but he can’t. Clint’s eyes look so big and welcome that he wants to fall into them again, but a soulgaze is a one-time thing. At least it means he can stare into Clint’s eyes as much as he likes now. That’s not a bad way to die.

Some of that must show in his face, because Clint inhales sharply. “No, Phil! Stay with me, please. Duquesne isn’t going to be a problem anymore, and I won’t leave you again. I’ll move into your place and look after you, you can teach me how to cook and we’ll work at S.H.I.E.L.D. together. Come on, Phil.”

It’s a beautiful future. Phil wants it desperately. The click of a gun cocking startles him, though. He looks over Clint’s shoulder. Clint catches the direction of his gaze and turns.

Barney has the gun pressed to the unconscious Duquesne’s forehead, leaning in hard enough to bruise. Phil can’t blame him for wanting to be free of the man, but he can’t sanction the shooting of an unarmed man. It seems Clint can’t, either, because he squeezes Phil’s hand once before shifting and rising to his feet. 

“Barney, Barney, come on,” he says cautiously. “What are you doing?”

“He fucked up my head, Clint,” Barney says. His voice is shaking. “He fucked it up good. There are things I can’t - can’t remember. I shot your friend and I - I _left you_.” His expression twists in agony. “I promised you I would never do that. He said to go, though, so I went. I tried to fight it, but - ” He breaks off with a sob.

“It’s okay,” Clint promises him. He puts both hands up. “I know you were only trying to protect me. You’ve always protected me, Barney. Always. Duquesne is going to go away now. The Council will deal with him. I’ll tell them everything.”

Barney shakes his head. “No, you shouldn’t have to. What if they don’t believe you? Or what if they turn around and punish you for what you did? No, it’s better to take care of this now.” He digs the gun in harder. “I’m doing it for you, Clint. To protect you. That’s my job, after all.”

Clint steps forward. “Don’t do this, Barney. Killing him won’t protect me, and it’ll destroy you. The Council will still come and investigate. They’ll still want to know what happened. No matter what you do, I’m going to have to tell them what I did.”

Barney’s shaking grows worse. “You should never have had to do that. I should have stopped him.”

“You tried,” Clint soothes, still walking forward. “I know you did.”

Barney shakes his head. “I didn’t try hard enough.”

“Barney please - ” Clint starts. The sound of sirens interrupts him, far away but getting closer. “Please. Give me the gun.”

Barney’s grip tightens. “No,” he says. “I can’t.”

Phil sees his moment to strike. He’s been working on gathering air, as much as he can despite the hole in his chest and the pressure of the shield spell Clint’s placed on him, and he uses it now. Thrusting out one arm he cries, “ _¡Chispee!_ ”

The snap-crackle of electrical energy is more showy than strong - it doesn’t do more than appear and disappear with a flash in front of Barney’s face, but the sudden appearance of the blue-white energy forces him to take a reflexive step back. His grip on the gun wavers. Clint darts in the moment his attention is split, and snatches it out of his hand. 

A second later the ambulance pulls in, careening with the siren wailing up onto the curb, and a pair of EMTs dash out. Clint drops the gun to the ground and puts up his hands, sinking down to his knees. “The man in the suit jacket! He’s the one who’s hurt!”

Phil knows he doesn’t have much time. The paramedics glance over the scene, but one look at his chest has them scrambling forward. They cross the remains of the chalk circle Clint inscribed on the ground, and reach for Phil while the shield spell still presses him down. Clint mutters something under his breath and the force of it dissipates, and then wetness bubbles into Phil’s chest and he chokes.

“Stabilize him!” he hears one of the EMTs shout. “He’s going tachy!”

Phil tries to stay with them, to keep his eyes on Clint, but he can’t breathe. His eyes roll back into his head, and he dies.

 

*

 

Consciousness returns slowly.

“The doctors say he’ll wake up soon.”

The voice is far away, but familiar. Already precious in a baffling way. Phil very much wants to hear it again.

“He’d better,” a different voice says, also familiar. “I’ve got to kick his ass for scaring us like this. Mind you, this is nothing. You should have seen the mess he was after Rio de Janeiro. Damn fool got himself cut up bad after jumping the enemy line and blasting his way through two ranks of full-fledged Red Court Vampires.”

The owner of the first voice makes a small sound of dismay, but the second person just chuckles. “All to save my sorry ass. He was unconscious for a week while they worked on him. I ripped him a new one when he woke up, too. Threatened to assign him to desk duty, which I did, at least until he walked into my office with a file half an inch thick. It had a notarized list of every op that went down while he was recovering, with neat notes on who did what well, who did what poorly, and what he would have done differently. On top of it all was his medical discharge form, officially clearing him for work in the field.”

The owner of first voice chuckles. Phil can’t see it at first, but then he can, because he’s blinking his eyes blearily open. “Sounds like he was good at his job,” the first voice says.

“The best,” the second man - Nick, Phil realizes. He can make him out now - says. “My right-hand man, but he needed a break from that life. We all did, after the Red Court went down. I always knew the Council needed another force, specialized, highly trained, focusing on more covert operations. I asked Phil to help me start it. He said yes, but then again, I knew he would.”

“Oh?”

It’s Clint. He looks okay, but still blurry. Phil blinks.

Nick nods. “We soulgazed back in the early days, when he was still a young kid new to his abilities. A soulgaze is a special thing, it lets you see into the depths of a person. I don’t know what you saw when you looked at Phil - and I’m not going to ask you - but I saw a man I would trust to have at my back. He’ll always do a job that needs doing. His sense of duty is larger than most people’s.”

Clint is quiet for a moment. Phil uses the time to swim closer to actual consciousness. “Is that what I am to him? A duty?”

NIck cocks his head. “Now that is something that I do not know. I don’t think so, but that’s only a feeling. What do you think?”

“I think he’s the best man I’ve ever known,” Clint says simply. “He’d do a lot for me out of duty.”

Nick nods slowly. “That he would. I don’t think it’s just that, but then again, you’ll have to ask him to be sure. I think our deal will settle his mind, though. Anyway.” He claps Clint on the shoulder and then leans over Phil, who blinks. “Time to get up now, asshole. Enough spying for one day.”

Phil’s mouth is dry, but useable. “Says the spy master.”

Clint scrambles upright, reaching for him, but Nick chuckles. “Spy Master Fury,” he says, rolling the words around in his mouth. “It’s got a ring to it.”

“I like ‘Director’ better,” Phil admits, rasping slightly. Now that he’s awake, he’s vaguely aware that he’s hurting everywhere. 

Nick shrugs. “Then Director it will be.” He squeezes Phil’s shoulder once, carefully. “Heal up, soldier. You’ve got a long haul of desk duty waiting for you, when you get back.”

Phil smiles but doesn’t say anything. They both know he’ll be back in the field exactly when he wants to be. Nick shoots him a grin and then stands, waving on his way out. “Don’t tire him out too much, Barton,” he says, a parting shot. “I got a shotgun in my closet, after all.”

Clint smiles, but he doesn’t look away from Phil’s face. “Get it out any time, sir.”

Nick chuckles and steps out of the room. Phil looks back to Clint. 

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” Clint says. His face tightens. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says. Getting shot isn’t fun. He looks around. He seems to be in the medical ward Nick had been building in the back of the S.H.I.E.L.D. offices. The walls are white but there’s no technology, just an old-style hand-pump blood pressure machine and a wind-up clock. “Wizards heal well, but we can get injured just as easily as regular humans can. Are you okay?”

Clint waves off his concern. “I’m fine.”

“What about Barney?” 

Clint smiles. “Only you would be worried about the man who shot you.”

“Well,” Phil says, forgetting himself for a moment and shrugging. He winces. That really hurts. “He _is_ your brother.”

Clint fusses over him. “He is, and he’s doing okay. Sam’s talking to him. Now stop moving, you’re hurting yourself.”

“I’m okay,” Phil deflects, even though he won’t be shifting like that again anytime soon. Sam’s good people, and he’s probably the best there is for Barney right now. “I’m glad to hear that.” 

“You really are, aren’t you?” Clint says quietly. His eyes flicker over Phil’s face. “You’re amazing.”

Phil blushes. It makes his heart pound, which his chest doesn’t like, but fuck it - he’s survived, he’s allowed this much. “I’m really not. You’re the incredible one.”

“I’d disagree with you, but I get the feeling we’d be here all night, so I’ll just nod and smile instead,” Clint says with a faint grin. “Do you need anything? Food? Water?”

“Some water would be nice,” Phil admits. Clint very carefully fetches him a cup and fits the straw to his lips. Phil sucks on it greedily, remembering to stop before he takes too much but already wanting more because _water._ Stars and stones, it’s never tasted so good. “Mmm.”

Clint’s lips twitch. “You can have more in a minute.”

Phil nods. He curls his fingers and toes, testing what hurts and what doesn’t. The hurt pile is definitely coming out on top. “What happened?”

Clint shifts, avoiding Phil’s eyes as he fiddles with the straw. “The ambulance arrived, and they got to you. It was touch and go for a while, especially with their equipment going haywire. They were on their way back to the hospital when I finally got through to S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury made a call and they re-directed you here to Headquarters. Apparently, wizards in hospitals are not a good thing, so Fury’s been having his own people look after you.”

Phil nods. “There was an incident once where an injured wizard fried all the circuitry in the dispatch ER. We have precautions put in place so no one ever ends up in the hospital. Too many innocent people would be put in danger.”

“That’s what Fury said,” Clint agrees. “I didn’t like it, but it made sense.”

“What happened to you and Barney?” Phil presses.

Clint shifts again. “The police picked us up. Fury took care of Duquesne, too, had him brought here, but to a secure facility. I don’t know, I haven’t seen him. Barney and I were put in lock-up while they got things sorted out.”

Phil traces Clint’s face with his eyes. “What’s the deal you made that Nick was talking about?”

Clint blinks. “You heard that?”

Phil nods.

“Well, uh, like you said,” Clint says, rubbing the back of his neck, “Fury wants me in S.H.I.E.L.D. He thinks he can train me up, and get me to the point where I can show his people a few things. I’m not sure I mentioned it, but I’m a really good marksman. I did some shows in the circus, at least. Fury seemed impressed with that.”

Phil smiles. “You must be really something. He doesn’t impress easily.”

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, I’m pretty good. I’ve got a lot to learn about magic, though. Fury says he can teach me, and then he’s got some people lined up who can show me things, too. He’s been talking more about an academy.”

“That’s always been one of his dreams,” Phil admits. “It’s a good idea.”

“I think so, too,” Clint says. He shifts again. “To convince him I wanted to stay, though, I - uh - I had to tell him everything.”

Phil figured this was coming. “You mean everything about your past? Everything Barney was concerned that you did?”

Clint nods. He twists his hands together. “I wanted to tell you first. I felt like you deserved it, but Fury wouldn’t let me near you unless I proved that I wasn’t a danger, and that meant telling him everything. I’m - I’m sorry, Phil. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did just fine,” Phil assures him. “I’m glad that you talked to Nick, he’s one of the best people I know. If he listened to you, and believed you, than that’s what’s important here, not who got the story first.”

Clint swallows. His eyes dart up to Phil’s and then away again. “Thank you. He said I have to write a report about it, so there’s a record in case the Council ever tries to make a fuss, but he thinks he can keep me safe from them. He says there were extraordinary circumstances.”

Phil smiles. “I’m glad.” He looks at Clint’s nervous hands. “Do you want to tell me what happened? You don’t have to, you know.”

Clint takes a deep breath in. “I should. You deserve to know what I’ve done.”

“Clint,” Phil assures him, “it won’t affect my opinion of you.”

Clint meets his eyes. “It has to. Phil, I’ve - I’ve hurt people.”

Phil smiles gently. “I know.”

Clint blinks. “You do?”

Phil nods. “It wasn’t hard to figure out - what you said to Barney, what I saw in your soul. I could see it.”

Clint’s face crumples. “Of course,” he mutters. “I knew it marked me as one of them.”

“Hey, no,” Phil says. He musters enough energy to move his right hand so that it’s covering Clint’s. It hurts, but it’s worth it. “Do you know what I saw when I looked at you, Clint? I saw a beautiful being made of gold, stubbornly resisting the demons that surrounded it. I saw the pain in your heart, pain you tried to cover up and work around. It’s draining you, weakening you, letting the demons in. If you can master it, Clint, if you can come to terms with it and what you did, then you’ll be stronger for it. You’ll be whole again.”

Clint looks down at their joined hands. “I felt like I’d never be whole again, like I’d be dirty and evil and _wrong_ for the rest of my life. It wasn’t - I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I used to use wind magic in my shows. I can shoot well, the best, but I learned how to summon bits of wind and air currents, enough to flip my arrows around and do tricks in the air. It was kids' stuff, fun and flashy, but the crowds loved it. Duquesne did, too. He said we could use that, that it’d be easy, that no one would get hurt.”

Phil squeezes Clint’s hand. “What happened?”

Clint swallows. “We started doing tricks together, fire and wind. It was good, at first. It got harder to control, though. Duquesne kept pushing for more elaborate tricks, even if I wasn’t ready yet. One day the fire spread. I tried to stop it, but I just made it worse. Three people died.”

Phil’s heart aches for him. “I’m sorry.”

“We left the circus after that. We didn’t have any way to support ourselves, so Duquesne came with us. He said it was my fault that the circus burned, but that if we helped him pull jobs, he’d keep his mouth shut. He was always going on about the Council, how bad they were, how they’d kill me for what happened. He said it wouldn’t matter that it was an accident - the Council would have my head.”

Phil closes his eyes. He wants to find Duquesne and hurt him again for the way he’d twisted Clint. “Isolating you was probably his plan all along. He could control you and your brother more easily once you were separated from people who cared about you.”

“I figured that out later,” Clint admits, “and it might not have been an accident at all, but by then it was too late. We were already running, pulling jobs, and Barney said we couldn’t leave because the Council would find us. He was trying to protect me.”

“It sounds like he did his best.”

“He did,” Clint promises. “He always did, he came with us and did everything Duquesne told him to do.”

“So that led to you two pulling the jewelry store job here in New York?” Phil asks.

Clint nods. “Yes. We were living in the - well, where you found me. Duquesne wasn’t there all the time, he’d come and go as he pleased. Barney and I were left to set things up, plan the job, and then deal with the consequences. Barney didn’t want to leave me when Duquesne said they had to run, but he didn’t have much of a choice by then.”

“He didn’t have any choice at all,” Phil agrees. “He was badly hurt by Duquesne, badly twisted. I’m glad Sam’s talking to him. He should be able to help.” 

“I hope so,” Clint says. He twists his hand under Phil’s nervously. “So, that’s it. That’s my story. Thank you for helping me stand up against Duquesne.”

“I didn’t do anything except get shot,” Phil says with a smile. “You did all the hard work on your own.”

“You taught me how to think about magic, how to use it.” Clint’s voice is sincere. “Thank you.”

Phil looks into his eyes. “You’re welcome.” He hesitates. “It wasn’t, you weren’t - _aren’t_ \- just a duty to me, Clint.”

Clint’s eyes widen. He swallows. “No?”

“No, I - ” Phil fumbles the words past his suddenly thick tongue. “I want - that is, if you want, I just - ” He sucks in a quick breath, holding it past the burn in his chest. “Waking up next to you was the single greatest morning of my life. I want to do that again, if - if you want to as well.”

He waits. Clint stares at him. Just when Phil starts to regret ever saying anything, he breaks out into a wide grin. “Yes! Yes, I do, I - ” He coughs. “Yes, Phil. Please.”

Phil smiles back, squeezing his hand. “I don’t want to move too fast or anything, but if you need someplace to stay, you’re welcome to live at my house.”

Clint squeezes his hand back. “I think we’ve shown we’re compatible housemates, yes.” He licks his bottom lip. “I want you to keep teaching me, if you can. Not like - I wouldn’t want to upset you, or cross any rules or lines or anything, but Fury’s going to teach me, and he’s got this Academy thing that he’s going to set up. I don’t want you to teach me like that, but little things - stuff friends would show each other, you could still teach me that, right?”

“Yes,” Phil agrees wholeheartedly, “I could.” He pauses. “Friends?”

“Friends,” Clint promises, “and… more than friends. If that’s okay with you.”

“Absolutely,” Phil breathes. “The geas is still active, though. I’ll never force you to do anything, to stay or to leave. The choice will always be yours, Clint.”

“I believe you,” Clint swears to him, looking into his eyes and smiling. “And, in that case, I choose to stay with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Let’s start with today, then,” Phil says with a smile, “and extend into forever.”

Clint grins. “Forever sounds just about perfect.”

Phil tries to lean forward, but stops with a hiss. Clint shakes his head and crosses the distance between them. 

“I told you,” he mutters, his lips just inches from Phil’s, “not to move.”

“You did,” Phil whispers. His tips his head up for a kiss.

Clint doesn’t disappoint, leaning down just enough to brush their lips together. Phil gasps. The touch is enough to send sparks shooting down his arms and legs, making his hands and feet tingle. 

Clint must feel it, too, because he shivers. “Is it always going to be like this?” he asks, awestruck.

“I hope so,” Phil promises, and raises his arm just enough to bury his fingers in Clint’s t-shirt. “Kiss me again and find out.”

Clint grins, and does.

 

 

~ The End

**Author's Note:**

> Phil finds/captures Clint and brings him home and decides to teach him. They have a mutual attraction sizzling, but nothing happens between them while they are in that role. They do eventually get together, but it’s after Clint is no longer officially or unofficially Phil’s student, and after they talk about it.


End file.
